


The Old Ways

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Surprising reversals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2007-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:23:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near the end of the First Age, Maedhros and Maglor are driven out of Beleriand and end up in the only remaining safe haven: the Isle of Balar.  They bring with them the eight-year-old sons of Eärendil.  Implied slash and AU aspects.</p><p>Newest chapter: Glorfindel and Ereinion attempt a reconciliation.  Foul language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Man With Golden Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Note: this story follows the alternate canon idea that Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Rivendell were two distinct characters.  Here, Glorfindel of Rivendell is the character in question.  The story also follows an HoME idea that all remaining Elves and Men of Beleriand fled to Balar in the year 540 of the First Age... and this "all" included Maedhros and Maglor.  Because of the divergence from Silmarillion canon, this can be considered AU._

* * *

It was raining on Balar. Elrond's hair and clothes were wet, sticking coldly to his skin. Mada's old cloak, the only shelter Elrond had in the small boat, had long since soaked through, and it hung heavy with water around his shoulders. His fingers felt icy cold where the gripped the fabric at his throat. His breath did little to warm them.

He could see Elros playing on the shore, some yards away. His brother ran, chanting rhyming games with each step he took, collecting clam shells around the feet of the soldiers. The cold and rain seemed to bother him less. The soldiers told him not to go far, and not to leave the small spit of gravely beach. When he became too adventurous, one of them would pick him up and carry him back. They told him not to do it again, but he always did.

Elrond squirmed on his bench in the little boat. The wood was wet, and his legs ached. It felt like days since he'd last stood up or moved. He tried to stretch and poke his toe around the coil of rope at Malo's feet.

"Do you want to play with your brother on the shore?" Malo asked.

Elrond shook his head.

Malo put his hand on Elrond's back. "Your cloak is soaking wet." He pulled it off, letting it fall half over the edge of the boat and into the water. Elrond leaned toward him, gladly trading his cloak for the shelter of Malo's arm. Malo's clothes were wet too, but his body was warm, and he pressed his face against Malo's chest.

"Is there any bread left?"

Malo sighed. "No. I'm sorry." He tightened his arms around Elrond.

"Can we go inside soon?" Elrond asked. "I'm cold."

"Oh Elrond, I am sorry..." He leaned forward and shouted to the soldiers on the shore. "Please, how much longer will we be kept out here? The children are cold and hungry."

The soldiers, stern as statues, gave no answer. One went to pull Elros down from a pile of rocks.

"We must wait for uncle Mada to come back," said Malo.

"Where did he go?"

Malo smiled. "He went to see the High King," he said as he kissed Elrond's wet hair.

~

"What would you do in my place?" Ereinion asked. "Yes, they are murderers, and the people will not stand to have them housed here. But they are still kin seeking refuge. By law it would be just to turn them away in vengeance, but they would surely die by Morgoth's hand if not by the sea. That would make us no better than them."

"They have Elwing and Eärendil's children," said Círdan.

Ereinion nodded. "Yes, one thing to their credit. They didn't abandon those boys to die. Would it be fair to keep the children here but turn Maedhros and Maglor away?"

"No." Shaking his head, Círdan stood and crossed to the window that overlooked the shore. Down below, he could see a small boat containing two tiny figures, while a third ran up and down the beach amid the soldiers. "If Maedhros and Maglor have acted as parents to those boys for the last four years, it would be cruel to separate them now."

"So you do advocate letting them all stay," said Ereinion.

"No..." Círdan answered slowly. He watched as one of the soldiers carried the boy on the beach out to the others in the boat. Even from the distance, he could see the boy's short legs kicking in protest.

"Then what?"

After a long moment, Círdan turned back. "You are the king now, Ereinion. It's your decision."

"But I'm asking for your advice!" Ereinion pleaded. "Círdan, please, you know the hearts of the people far better than I. Do you think, under the proper circumstances, they can be persuaded to keep the sons of Fëanor here? What if we were to keep them almost as prisoners... Not in a prison, of course, but under watch?"

"Would Maedhros allow that?"

"He would have to," said Ereinion. "He can choose between a secure but restricted life here or an uncertain survival back on the mainland. We will take his and his brother's weapons, forbid them from ever again carrying so much as a dagger, and have them followed at all times."

Círdan smiled thinly. "They would need to be guarded more for their own protection than for the protection of our people."

"That is true," Ereinion agreed. "But I think that with time..."

"The survivors of Doriath and Avernien will never forgive them, no matter how much time passes."

"Not forgive them," Ereinion said. "But accept that having them kept alive and in servitude, always guilty in the presence of those they wronged, is a suitable punishment."

"You may be right," Círdan said with a slow nod.

Ereinion exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. "Good. We agree then. I just hope the others... Well I guess we'll see." He smoothed his hands over his shirt and sash. "Come with me to tell Maedhros. How do I look?"

"Nervous," said Círdan. "Stand up straighter."

Ereinion straightened his posture and fixed a stern look on his face.

"Now you look angry," Círdan said with a laugh.

"I can't help it. I know he's judging me. He knew my father so well and... The way he watched me when they brought him in made me think the comparison in his mind wasn't favourable." Ereinion sighed, shoulders slumping. "He thinks I'm too young. That because he's my uncle, he somehow holds authority over me."

"But you have already decided his fate," said Círdan. "There is nothing to discuss with him."

"You're right," Ereinion agreed. He took a deep breath, standing straighter again, as if to convince himself. "You're right. Either he accepts my decision, or he is escorted back to his boat."

"And what of the children, if he chooses to take his chances with the boat?"

"They can decide for themselves."

~

It seemed a long time until Maedhros came back to the beach, escorted by soldiers carrying long spears.

"Mada!" Elros cried. He skipped across the rocky beach, abandoning a tiny castle made of sticks and reeds, and flung himself into Maedhros' arms.

Maedhros picked him up absently. "Where's your brother, Elros?"

Elros pointed ahead to the water, in the direction Maedhros was walking. "In the boat still."

"He won't play with you?"

"He says it's too cold. Did you see the king?"

"Aye," Maedhros said, nodding.

"Did he have a crown?"

"No, no crown..."  
  
"What did he look like?"

Maedhros waded out into the waves. The water went up to his knees, and he set Elros down into the boat. "He looked a bit like your uncle Malo."

"What did he say?" Maglor asked quietly.

The waves swelled around his legs, splashing up against his breeches, but Maedhros only stood fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. "We are allowed to stay," he eventually said.

"...But?"

"But we will live as captives here. They will take our weapons. We will have a room in the King's house. Always under watch. Or we can leave now." Maedhros stared at his cuff as he spoke.

"What did you say?" asked Maglor.

Maedhros shrugged. "I said I would have to consult with you."

"I think we should accept the offer."

Maedhros looked up at him.

"The children are cold," Maglor said in defence. "They've not eaten all day, and I've not had so much as bread in three. Where else can we go? And what else should we expect here? They are very generous to offer to let us stay at all." He hugged Elrond closer to his chest. "We can accept charity on their terms. We have no choice."

"Hm," was all Maedhros said. He stood still and looked down at his cuff again.

Then without a word, he grabbed his swordbelt from the boat and dropped it into the uneasy waves. "There is my weapon," he told the guards on the beach as he waded back to shore. "You may take it if you wish."

Elros fell out of the boat trying to reach the sword at the bottom of the sea.

~

Elrond liked Erestor immediately. The first words out of Erestor's mouth, after Malo and Mada and the Telerin man left them alone, were, "I suppose I can let you have another cake if you like, but you mustn't tell your uncles." Erestor gave him another cake, as big as his hand and filled with jam. Elrond finished it quickly and only remembered he ought to be polite and share with Erestor when he had eaten nearly the whole thing. Then Erestor gave him a cup of milk.

From a very young age, Elrond had carried an appreciation for fine clothes, and Erestor's clothes were some of the best he had ever seen. Unlike Malo, who seemed only to wear old, ill-fitting and dirty things, and Mada, who often wore the same dull grey shirt more than ten days in a row, Erestor was dressed in impeccably clean, well-made, and impressively fancy garments. There were tassels on his belt and ribbon flowers on his sleeves. Elrond touched one. He knew it was bad manners, but he could not stop his hand in time. Erestor only smiled, seeming not to mind.

"Would you like to play a game, Elrond?" he asked.

"What game?"

"Whatever you like. I have cards, and little wooden soldiers, and animals, and game coins, and building stones."

"I like animals," said Elrond.

It was difficult to tell how old Erestor was. Elrond could never guess the ages of adults very well, but it seemed to him that Erestor was not very old. Not as old as Malo and Mada at least, nor the Telerin man and the King he had seen only briefly. Whatever his age, he was good at playing. He and Elrond played farm animals, and Erestor built a little barn for the horses out of the flat building stones, using a cake plate for the roof. When Elrond grew too curious, he asked, "How old are you?"

"I am one hundred and two years old," Erestor answered.

Elrond smiled to himself. Erestor was not nearly as old as Mada and Malo. He had guessed right.

"How old are you?" Erestor asked.

"Eight," said Elrond.

Erestor smiled too. "You're quite big for your age."

"That's what Malo says."

"Malo?"

Elrond squirmed. "My uncle Maglor," he said, embarrassed for using the pet name he and Elros had made up years ago. "I... my brother and I call him that. I mean we used to. When we were little."

"Ah," Erestor said with a nod. Then he was quiet long enough to make a fence around the stone barn and put the little wooden horses within. "Elrond..." he finally said. "Do you remember much from when you were very little?"

"I don't know," said Elrond, and he shrugged.

"I mean," Erestor continued, "do you remember anything before you went to live with your uncles?"

Elrond shook his head. "No. Not really." He thought back to his earliest memories: Maglor giving him a little bag made of rabbit skin, Elros falling out of a tree and breaking his wrist, drinking water from a stream, having to wear a big grey cape to go outside in the snow. And, strangely, a man with golden hair. A man who wasn't Maedhros or Maglor or anyone else he knew.

"I sort of remember..." he said, "a man with golden hair. But I don't remember him doing anything. I just remember seeing him."

"Is he your ada?" Erestor asked.

"I don't know. Did my ada have golden hair?"

"Yes," said Erestor.

"Did you know him?"

"No... not well." Erestor picked up a miniature wooden pumpkin and rolled it between his fingers. "I only met him once or twice."

"I never met him," Elrond said quietly. "Not that I remember anyway. Mada... Maedhros said he and my nana died when I was hardly more than a baby."

~

Erestor sat down with a tired sigh and took a long drink of wine before he spoke. "Elrond remembers nothing. His only childhood memories are of Maedhros and Maglor. He has no sense of who his parents were."

"How is that possible?" asked Ereinion. "He was nearly four years old when Avernien was attacked. Surely he must remember something?"

"It was a terrible time for him," said Círdan. "It's likely he blocked all the memories. Or it could be his mortal heritage. An Elven child would remember his early years, true, but is it the same for human children?"

"A pity either way," Ereinion sighed.

"A pity he never knew his parents, yes," said Erestor. "But the way he acts, I think he's had a fine childhood so far, all things considered."

Círdan shifted in his seat, propping his elbows on the table and resting his head against his knuckles. "How much does he know?"

"Of Avernien? Nothing, I'd guess," Erestor said. "He knows his parents are dead. Maedhros told him that much, but I'm sure never said how. I asked about some of his earliest memories, and all of them were of Maglor or Maedhros. Except..."

Ereinion looked up at him with eyebrows expectantly raised.

"He told me he has one memory, probably very early, of a man with golden hair."

"Eärendil?" asked Círdan.

"I would guess so," said Erestor. "It's an uncommon enough hair colour, and who else would he remember?"

~ 

Erestor became something like Elrond's guardian, since Maedhros and Maglor were not allowed to wander the island unaccompanied. Elros preferred to explore on his own, but Elrond liked Erestor's company. The two of them walked all around the king's house, all around the courtyard, and eventually all around the little city that seemed constantly under construction. Erestor explained that it was because Balar was a new settlement. The King and his people had been here not even seventy years, and there was always something to build or make better.

All sorts of Elves lived on Balar, coming from placed that had been destroyed. There were pale-haired Sindar from the North, Elves of Doriath trying to speak to Elrond in their strange language, coast-dwellers with a funny accent, and refugees from Gondolin and Nargothrond and other places Elrond had never even heard of. So many different sorts of Elves, and so many Elves of each sort. Balar was crowded. Elrond guessed that Maglor must hate it. Maglor preferred wide open spaces with room to be by himself. Elrond, though, found it fascinating. He had never been in such a lively place with so much to see.

It was hard to place where Erestor belonged. He looked like the Elves from Gondolin, but spoke North Sindarin to Elrond and with a costal accent to everyone else. After a day of listening to Erestor explain where everyone came from and when they arrived, Elrond had to bow to his curiosity and ask.

"Where did you come from?"

"North," said Erestor. "Mithrim. But I came to live on the coast when I was a child."

"Did the King come from the north too?" Elrond asked. The King looked like he came from the same sort of Elves as Erestor. And Maglor.

"He did," Erestor said with a nod. "We came together. We're both orphans from the north."

Elrond felt sorry for Erestor and the King. He was an orphan too, but at least he had Maglor and Maedhros and Elros. Erestor and the King had no uncles and no family. "That's very sad..." he said to himself.

"What?" asked Erestor.

"That you have no family," said Elrond.

"I suppose it is," Erestor agreed. "But I never think of it that way any more. Ereinion has been as good as a brother to me all these years, and Círdan is like our father. We have enough friends to keep us happy."

Elrond wondered whether it was easier to have no parents as an adult than as a child, and wished he could grow up faster.

~ 

After ten days on Balar, Maglor stopped coming out of his room. He said it was because he wanted to stay out of the cold autumn rain, but Elrond knew it was because he wanted to stay out of the crowds of people who shouted and threw garbage at him.

After twenty days, he looked pale and weak. His skin was dull and there were dark circles under his eyes. He sat by his window, listlessly staring at the King's rainy garden, sometimes singing to himself, sometimes sitting still as a stone.

Elrond visited him whenever Maedhros had been allowed out for the day. The little room, which was shared, had the opposite effect on Maedhros as it had on Maglor. It made him restless and violent like a dog in a cage. He hit the walls and broke the furniture. The fury in his eyes frightened Elrond. It made him look less like Mada and more like a demon. So Elrond only visited Maglor after he was sure Maedhros was gone. Erestor often came with him.

Erestor could speak the secret language. This was the only thing that could get Maglor to act like himself. While speaking to Erestor in flowing words Elrond could not understand, he seemed like the same old Malo. He looked less pale and weak when Erestor was there. He looked happy. Elrond could never guess what they discussed, but they talked and laughed like best friends. 

"How did you learn that language?" Elrond asked when they left.

"Quenya? I learned it growing up. My father spoke it at home."

"But it's my uncles' language," said Elrond. "Only they're supposed to speak it. It's secret."

"Secret?" asked Erestor. "No, I think they've been teasing you, Elrond. Quenya is the language of the Golodhrim, the language they spoke across the sea. Though we hardly use it now, except in private conversations. We mainly speak the native languages of these parts. But I still learned Quenya, and so did Ereinion, because it is part of our heritage. Someone ought to teach you and Elros as well. Even if you rarely use it."

Elrond considered this. "Alright," he said.

"Then you can understand what your uncle and I talk about," Erestor added with a sly grin.

"What do you talk about?"

"Oh, everything," said Erestor. "Mainly old things. He always wants to talk about the past. My father was a friend of his, who came with him across the sea, so he tells me about those times. I like to hear his stories, and I think he likes telling me."

~ 

The day the autumn rain finally stopped, marking the beginning of winter, was the King's birthday. He was turning ninety-five. It was very warm for winter, Elrond thought. The ground was warm on his bare feet, and the sun was shining for the first day in a long time. A small group had gathered on the beach for a celebration.

Erestor looked like a king. He had told Elrond once that he had often been mistaken for the Prince Ereinion when he was a child, because he stood so regal and still in his immaculate clothing while the real Ereinion was off making himself a wig out of dirty seaweed. He looked equally regal sitting on his little folding chair under the beach canopy. He was wearing the same outfit he had been wearing the day Elrond met him. It was the outfit with tassels and ribbon flowers, and Elrond thought it looked even better than before. Elrond himself was wearing one of Erestor's tunics, as long as a night dress on him and tied about the waist with a bright, braided sash. When he smiled down at his clothing, he knew he looked like a little prince, sitting on the royal blanket next to King Erestor's folding beach chair throne.

The real King was running about on the beach, naked as an Avarin baby and having a mud fight with Elros. The two of them screamed with laughter, and wailed in mock pain as mud splattered across their skin. They raced after each other up and down the beach. Then the King picked up Elros by his ankles, spun him around a few times, and let him go flying headlong into the ocean. Elrond laughed almost as hard as Elros did.

Erestor looked up from his book. "Mercy, Elrond, undress and go join them. You needn't sit here watching me do ledgers all day. Go have fun."

"But..." Elrond said, though he could not think of a but. As much as he liked the thought of maybe being mistaken for a prince if Erestor were mistaken for the King, he liked the thought of being thrown into the ocean more. He wiggled out of the borrowed tunic and ran down to the wet part of the beach where the waves licked the sand. The King picked him up by his ankles, just as he had done with Elros, and whirled him through the air until he flew out across the waves and landed with a splash. Choking and spitting water, he stood up, a wide grin on his face. And he ran back to shore to be thrown again.

After a while the King called for Erestor to put down his work and come swimming. Erestor refused at first, but was eventually lured away from his ledger by two pair of small, clinging hands. He left his fancy clothes under the canopy and waded out into the ocean. For someone who liked staying indoors, he was a good swimmer. He could disappear under the surface for longer than anyone, and reappear far away down the beach. A few times he crept up on Elros or Elrond under the dark water and ducked them.

Elrond was the first to get cold in the winter ocean. So Erestor walked him back up to the canopy, dried him off, and set him down in the sun, wrapped in a bundle of blankets. He shivered happily to watch Elros and the King still playing in the waves. They were having a seaweed fight. Elros managed to get some in the King's mouth.

When he felt warm again, he went back to get dressed and stand beside Erestor again. Erestor was working. He made pen marks in his ledger book, a frown of concentration on his face.

"What are you doing?" Elrond asked.

"Figuring," said Erestor. "I'm in charge of recording who has paid taxes to the King, and how much."

"How much did they pay?"

Erestor smiled. "Well, that's what I'm trying to figure."

Elrond looked down over Erestor's shoulder at all the marks in the book. "Does everyone on the whole island have to pay taxes to the King?"

"Nooooo..." Erestor said slowly. "Many of them refuse to follow the rule of a king of the Golodhrim. Especially those from Doriath. They pay their taxes to Círdan instead." Then he muttered under his breath, "Though it's not as if it doesn't all go to exactly the same place in the end..."

"Do I have to pay taxes to the King?" asked Elrond.

"When you're fifty you will," Erestor answered with a silly smile.

Elrond looked down at the book again. It seemed overly complicated and boring. "Why do you have to do this?" he asked.

This was clearly the wrong question, because Erestor set his pen down with disgust and a dark look crossed his face. "Because," he said bitterly, "the King's old accountant decided to leave the profession and become a turnip farmer. And since I was the old accountant's assistant, I was promoted."

"A turnip farmer," said Elrond. He was not sure whether he should laugh at the situation or feel sorry for Erestor. Somewhere deep down, he was half convinced that Erestor was pulling his leg. Turnips were horrible vegetables. Nobody would ever want to farm them, and especially not somebody in a position as glamorous as accountant to the King.

"Yes. Well, and other vegetables too. But he likes turnips best."

Now Elrond knew Erestor was pulling his leg. Nobody would ever like Turnips best. It seemed to him that a hint of a smirk pulled at Erestor's lip.

~ 

After three days of pestering, Erestor finally agreed to take Elrond to see the infamous Turnip Farmer. His hesitance only served to convince Elrond that he had indeed been telling a tall tale.

The Turnip Farmer, according to Erestor, lived south of the main settlement in the hilly middle part of the island. It was a long walk to his farm. Elrond asked how he could haul his turnips to the market over such a long distance, and Erestor said he tied a sledge to a donkey. Elrond was slow to believe that, too. But over the next hill, they saw a little house with a wisp of smoke at its chimney. And there was a donkey, swishing its tail at flies as it stood in a fenced pasture. There was also a goat tied to a post by a long tether. It ate grass in a wide arc around the front of the house. Elrond curiously looked for pigs, but there were none. A real farm, in his mind, needed pigs. There were always pigs in stories about farms and play sets of wooden farm animals.

The air outside the house smelled of animals and soggy grass, but when Elrond passed the window, the scent of something wonderful cooking inside made his stomach growl with hunger. He hoped it was dinner time soon, and that he and Erestor would be invited in to eat. Whatever the food was, it smelled even better than the dinner he got from the King's kitchen every day.

Erestor must have read Elrond's thoughts, because he said, "We're just in time for dinner. And my friend is a very good cook." He paused a moment to inhale the food smell, then knocked on the door.

A strange man opened it. A man with dark skin the colour of tea with cream, and rich golden hair unfortunately cut off at his chin in an ugly, short style. He wore a funny button-up outfit with tight sleeves, made from the kind of brightly patterned fabric Sindarin girls used to make aprons. It was ripped at one elbow and part of the ruffle around the hem was coming off. In one hand the man held a long spoon, and in the other was a jar of brown powder. He nodded wordlessly to Erestor to invite them in before returning to his cooking fire.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" Erestor said as he stepped inside. Elrond followed close behind. "I've brought our young master Elrond to see you. He's very interested in seeing the workings of a turnip farm." Erestor spoke to the Turnip Farmer in North Sindarin as he led Elrond to sit at the table in the corner of the room.

The Turnip Farmer turned to look over his shoulder at Elrond. He looked only briefly.

"Elrond," said Erestor, "this is my friend Glorfindel. He used to be the King's accountant, but now he is a turnip farmer."

"Rutabagas," said Glorfindel.

Erestor blinked at him. "...What?"

"That's what I grow. Rutabagas. Not turnips." Glorfindel spoke back to Erestor in North Sindarin, which made Elrond guess he came from the North too, though he looked very different from Erestor and Maglor and the King.

He crossed over to the table carrying a vegetable that looked like a turnip. "This," he said, "is a rutabaga. It is yellow with a purple top. See?" He held up the rutabaga for Elrond to inspect. It was indeed yellow with a purple top. "Turnips on the other hand," Glorfindel continued, "are white with a purple top. They are smaller and don't taste as good. So I choose to grow rutabagas. Not turnips." He looked pointedly at Erestor. Erestor frowned and rolled his eyes. Glorfindel pulled the rutabaga away just as Elrond was about to touch it, and he went back to the stove.

Erestor was silent for a good long while. While he was being silent and looking foolish, Glorfindel filled three bowls with a thick golden stew. Elrond eyed his bowl warily. He knew the stew was made from rutabagas, which in his mind were even more suspicious than turnips, but it smelled too good to resist. He licked his spoon with the tip of his tongue. The stew tasted nutty and spicy and savoury all at once with a harmony of wonderful flavours. He finished the bowl quickly, and took more when it was offered. Erestor had been right. The Farmer was a very good cook.

Elrond wanted to see more of the farm once dinner was finished, but Erestor said it was time to go. Glorfindel invited him to return any time. Elrond said he would, but Erestor said, "We'll see." Erestor was still scowling over the rutabagas. Elrond hoped they would come back. He knew Elros would like visiting a farm, pigs or no.

As they walked back toward the city, Elrond said, "I like your friend. He's nice."

"He can be sometimes," said Erestor.

Glorfindel looked familiar to Elrond, and acted like someone he had known for a long time. Almost like family. His hair was peculiar and short, but his face looked like someone Elrond knew. "Erestor," Elrond said. "I think... I think he's the one in my memory. The man with golden hair."

~ 

"You must convince him to come back to the city, Erestor," Ereinion said. "As a friend of Eärendil and Elwing, he is someone who can claim guardianship of the boys. And Elrond has a memory of him from early childhood. That will make things easier."

Erestor frowned back at him. "And then, once the children have a new guardian, you'll send Maedhros and Maglor back to the mainland to be killed by the hordes of Morgoth. Won't you?"

"Erestor..."

"Won't you?!" Erestor stood up violently, knocking his chair back. He paced alongside the table. "No, I won't facilitate that."

Círdan cleared his throat, but did not lift his gaze from the floor. "They're not wanted here, Erestor, and that means they're in danger. The people have made it very clear how they feel about any sons of Fëanor living on the island. There are daily threats."

"Then protect them!" Erestor shouted. "You always said you'd offer a safe haven to anyone who needs it! And they need it now! How could you think of turning them back?"

"I have limits," Círdan answered quietly. "I can't offer protection at the expense of another's safety."

"Whose safety?"

"I don't know," said Círdan. "But I have a feeling, a very strong feeling, that we will be in danger as long as Maedhros is on this island."

"They're cursed," Ereinion added. "The curse will follow them wherever they go. That means we're cursed while they're here."

"You may think that if you want," said Erestor. "I don't."

Ereinion threw up his hands, exasperated. "How can you not? After all they've done-"

"They were only doing what they thought was right. They swore an oath. They must follow it."

"At Alqualondë and Doriath and Avernien?"

"They must follow it," Erestor repeated flatly. "An oath can't be broken. No matter what happens."

"You thinking like them," said Ereinion.

Erestor scowled. "What makes you say I think like them? Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Maybe I think like me. Maybe I think I'm tired of being constantly badgered by you, and that I don't want any part in this scheme of yours to give Elros and Elrond to Glorfindel so you can be rid of Maedhros and Maglor. Maybe I think the boys are better off as they are."

Ereinion and Círdan watched as Erestor turned and left the room. Círdan sighed, and Ereinion rubbed at his forehead.

"Then... do you want to talk to Glorfindel?" Círdan asked.

Ereinion scoffed. "No. You know what he thinks of me."

"Do you want to talk to Maedhros?"

"Not at all."

"You want to do nothing and hope a different solution eventually arises?"

Ereinion weighed the options in his mind. "That sounds about right," he said.

~ 

But Erestor did go back to speak to Glorfindel the next day. He brought with him Elrond and Elros, and a musty old encyclopaedia of plants.

"Rutabaga," he read from page two-hundred-twenty-six. "A bulbous root vegetable of the *turnip* family, originally cultivated in the northern part Valinor and extensively in Formenos. Distinguished by its golden-yellow flesh and purple skin near the leaf base, rutabagas were originally brought to Endor by Noldorin exiles. More under: _Fëanorian turnip_." He closed the book with a significant clap.

Glorfindel, who was wearing his peculiar button-up outfit again, only raised an eyebrow. "Erestor, nobody calls them Fëanorian turnips any more. That name went out of style before I was even born."

"But the important thing is that they are still turnips," said Erestor. With a triumphant grin, he tucked his plant book under his arm and marched out the front door, leaving Elrond and Elros sitting uncertainly at the kitchen table.

"Do we have to go?" asked Elros.

"No no," said Glorfindel. "You just got here. Stay sitting, and pour you some milk."

"But Erestor-" Elrond began.  


"Erestor suffers from an unfortunate condition known as _merenyalië quentalo_."  
  
Elros and Elrond blinked.

"What that means," Glorfindel continued, "is that he is an idiot. Especially when it comes to anything Fëanorian."

"He likes Fëanor?" asked Elros.

Glorfindel nodded solemnly. "Very much. In fact, I think he wants to marry him."

At this, Elros laughed so hard he started to choke. But Elrond could only smile a weak kind of smile. He stretched his neck to look out the door at Erestor, who was sitting on the grass near the goat. What was so wrong with loving the family of Fëanor anyhow? That was Maedhros and Maglor. They were Elrond's family, and he loved them. So did Elros.

Glorfindel spoke again. "He came from a camp of exiles in North Mithrim. He's always been a supporter of the sons of Fëanor."

"So?" Elrond said suddenly. He surprised even himself with the harsh sound in his voice. "What's wrong with that? I mean, he can be friends with our uncles if he wants, right? Just because they're not from here everyone treats them like enemies. But they never did anything. Why shouldn't Erestor visit them if he wants?"

Glorfindel opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it silently. He paused long enough to rub at a smudge of dirt on his arm. "It's not my place to tell you, Elrond," he said quietly, but with a bitterness. "There is a reason why your uncles are kept locked up like criminals. One day you'll learn the truth about them, and about your parents. Though for your sake, I hope that's not for a long time yet."

Elros stopped even his silent giggling. "What about our parents?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Glorfindel. He strained to make his voice sound too bright and happy. "Forget I said anything. It's not important. What's important now is making you some dinner." He stood up and went to the stove, and said no more about Maedhros and Maglor.

Elrond walked home that afternoon with Glorfindel's words ringing over and over through his head. He knew they would haunt him for some time. A sickly twinge was worming around in the bottom of his stomach: a twinge that told him something terrible loomed in the future. Something about Maedhros.

He held tighter onto Erestor's hand, and walked a bit more slowly back to the city.


	2. Map Biography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Near the end of the First Age, Maedhros and Maglor are driven out of Beleriand and end up in the only remaining safe haven: the Isle of Balar. They bring with them the eight-year-old sons of Erendil. Implied slash and AU aspects.

Erestor and Elrond visited Maglor every day over the winter. Erestor happily took up the role of talking with Maedhros, keeping him occupied and otherwise out of the way while Elrond stole a brief moment to snuggle on Maglor's lap. As the shiny newness of Balar started to wear off, Elrond began to miss the quiet family afternoons he and Maglor had once shared. He missed their spending time together, and longed to return to that old closeness. Even if they did nothing.

Elrond and Maglor sat in the rocking chair by the window at one end of the room, and Erestor and Maedhros stood at the other. Maedhros was shouting and pacing. It was difficult to tell, from Elrond's standpoint, whether he was shouting abuse at Erestor or merely shouting because he wanted to shout. Erestor spoke back in a low, calm voice. The louder and more rapid Maedhros' shouted words were, the slower and quieter Erestor's replies came. Eventually, it seemed to work. Maedhros stopped shouting. After another minute, he even sat down in a chair. Soon he and Erestor were laughing together.

"I guess Mada likes Erestor," Elrond said. He spoke mainly into Maglor's shirt.

"Mm," said Maglor. He hardly ever spoke any more.

~

Once Elrond and Elros learned the way, they were free to go to Glorfindel's farm whenever they liked. It was a long walk, so they often made a day of it. Sometimes they stayed overnight, though they had to sleep on the floor of the tiny house.

On Glorfindel-visiting days, Elrond went to see Maglor in the morning as soon as he woke. After a brief sit by the window, he ate breakfast with Elros, then the two of them took off down the road. Elros always wanted to race, and he usually won. Elrond preferred to take his time, looking at plants and clouds along the way.

Sometimes there was farm work to be done at Glorfindel's house. Even in the middle of winter, gardens on Balar still grew. Elrond and Elros helped water the rutabagas. They pulled up the ones that were ready, and sorted them into piles. Big, nicely-shaped ones went into a pile to sell at the market. Small, crooked ones went into a pile for Glorfindel to eat himself (as he cared only about the taste of the rutabagas, not the shape), and cracked or broken ones went into a pile to feed to the donkey and goat. Then there were other vegetables to pick and sort: beans, cucumbers, carrots, onions, cabbage, and more things that Elrond only knew the name of because Glorfindel told him. 

But if they came on certain days, there was no work to do, because the grassy part of Glorfindel's field was full of people. Elros called it the People Garden, and confided in Elrond that he secretly hoped Glorfindel was growing an army. They seemed, though, too calm to be an army. They sat on little mats, looking westward, while Glorfindel alternately sang in Quenya and told them about Manwë in Sindarin. So Elrond knew they were not army people, but religious people.

When Elrond asked what they were doing out in the field, Glorfindel explained as best he could, in a way that a pair of eight-year-old twins would understand:

Many Elves were frightened by Morgoth's power and string of victories so far. They were afraid that Balar would be next to fall. So in these dark times, they took comfort in the grace and goodness of Manwë. Most of the gatherers were Sindar who had never known the glory of the Valar. They felt protected by prayer, and the strict order of religion helped them live their lives. Glorfindel told them histories from Valinor, and gave them lessons and guidance. While the Noldor believed that people should not marry or have children in difficult times, Glorfindel told them the opposite. They should marry and have many children, because the joy of family might be their only joy for a long time to come. He conducted an unusually large number of weddings and baby-naming ceremonies.

Glorfindel himself was not married, but there was a Doriathren woman, Hedhin, who frequently came to visit and always ended up staying the night. She had divorced her husband after he lost all his money gambling on the foot races in town. In fact, she had joined Glorfindel's religion so she could get a divorce. Divorce, Glorfindel said, was sanctioned by Ingwë, on Manwë's approval. The first case was hundreds of years ago, when Ingwë's second daughter married a man who turned out to be lazy and a bit homosexual. She argued that he was not the man she thought he was, and that their marriage had been poorly thought-out, therefore their fëar had not properly united. So she was allowed to divorce him. Many of the marriages Glorfindel performed were also poorly thought-out, between hot-headed young people. He authorised a good number of divorces. Better to divorce and move on, he said, than to be locked in an uncomfortable, unwanted marriage.

Elrond did not fully understand this all, but he thought the parts he did understand made enough sense.

~ 

Maedhros always started off shouting at Erestor. There was something new to shout about at every visit. But Erestor accepted it, and the noise did not bother Elrond so much any more. He ignored shouting Maedhros in the corner and concentrated on making himself comfortable on Maglor's lap.

Elrond did all the talking during their visits now. Maglor sometimes replied, or sometimes stared blankly out the window. His eyes were dull, and his skin was pale and papery-thin. Elrond could see blue lines of veins on his forehead and neck. With the tip of his finger, he traced one as he spoke.

"I had a dream last night that Elros found a dog and we were allowed to keep it. Then when I woke up and told Elros he was so upset that the dream wasn't real that he said he's going to find a dog for us today. If he finds one can we keep it?"

He paused to watch for any sort of response from Maglor, but none came. He continued speaking nonetheless. "If he finds a dog maybe it can stay in here with you. Then you'd always have somebody for company. Dogs are good company; they're always happy to see you. And I bet Elros would come visit more often if we had a dog here."

Maglor's gaze darted to meet Elrond's at the mention of Elros' potential visit. A bright blue vein stood out prominently in the creases at the corner of his right eye. Elrond raised his finger to trace it.

"Do you even think there are many dogs on this island? I've hardly seen any so far and the ones I see always look like they already live with somebody."

The blue vein ran from Maglor's eye to his hairline. It ended in a blue bruise, hidden under dirty black hair. Elrond touched the bruise. "What happened, Malo?"

Maglor turned back to the window.

Timidly, Elrond lifted up the curtain of Maglor's hair. His ear was mottled blue and purple, with an ugly red gash where the skin had split. Directly beneath, four little round bruises extended in a line down his neck. Elrond put a finger on each of them, stretching his small hand to touch them all. His thumb came to rest on Maglor's throat. Just past the tip of it, he saw a faint fifth circle of a bruise. If his hand were a bit bigger, adult-size, he would have been able to touch all of them.

"Malo?" He lifted the fall of hair on Maglor's left side to look for more bruises.

"Elrond, what are you doing?" Maedhros' voice carried sharply across the small room.

"Nothing," said Elrond. He jerked his hand back and sat down quickly on Maglor's lap, ducking out of sight of Maedhros' harsh eyes. Almost as an automatic response, Maglor tucked his arms securely around Elrond's shoulders. Elrond snuggled closer and buried his face against Maglor's shirt. But the smell he smelled on the fabric wasn't Malo, but Mada. Maglor's shirt smelled like Maedhros. Sour sweat and metallic blood. It made Elrond's skin crawl and his stomach churn at a sickening, unknown fear. For a moment, without knowing why, instinct took over and he panicked. A terrible trickle of some lost memory pricked the back of his mind. Fire. Terror. Death.

He squirmed off Maglor's lap, or at least tried to. Maglor suddenly held him tightly in an iron embrace. He twisted his body until he felt his feet touch the floor, and he sank heavily to his knees. Maglor was not quick enough to catch him. But as he scurried backward, Maglor's hand shot out to touch his cheek and catch his gaze. For the first time, Elrond saw the extent of the damage in Maglor's eyes, haunted and desperate. And he heard a single word echo like a clear memory in his head.

_Círdan_.

When Maglor's hand dropped, Elrond ran as fast as he could.

~

Círdan came that night to take Maglor away. Maedhros screamed and hissed, but there was nothing he could do once the door to his room was locked with him inside and Maglor out. Maglor was moved to a room on the other side of the house, one with a door that could open onto the King's private garden.

"He'll like that better," Elrond told Erestor. "He'll like being able to go outside."

"Hmm," said Erestor. "But your uncle Maedhros will be lonely."

~

By the end of winter, Glorfindel's hair had grown enough to touch his shoulders in nice, loose curls. Elrond thought it looked far better when it was long. He went out of his way to tell Glorfindel this, several times, until he was sure Glorfindel knew. He had a growing fear that Glorfindel would cut his hair off again, and it would return to being ugly and short for the party.

The party was for Elrond's ninth birthday, and of course the ninth birthday of Elros as well. But it was also Erestor's birthday. By some wonderful coincidence, which made Elrond grin every time he thought about it, he and Elros and Erestor had all been born on the same day. The first day of spring. Three birthdays on the first official calendar day of spring warranted a grand party.

"Please come!" Elrond pleaded to Glorfindel. He tugged at Glorfindel's sleeve. "Please please please, you have to. I want you to come and Elros and Erestor too, and it's our birthday so you have to do what we say. Please just one day!"

Glorfindel hemmed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. Elrond tugged more urgently. He had promised Erestor he would convince Glorfindel to leave the farm and return to the city for one day, and he refused to give up hope.

"Please, Glorfindel, please please come..."

"Will your uncles be there?"

"Maedhros will. The King said he could come for a while. But Maglor never wants to leave his room."

"Well, I don't know..." Glorfindel said slowly. But he was beginning to smile.

"You have to!"

Glorfindel laughed. "Are you the king now, to order me around like that?"

"Yes!" said Elrond.

"Ah, I see," said Glorfindel, in a very serious voice. "In that case I guess I can't refuse. Your highness."

Elrond grinned and bounced around the room like a rabbit.

"When is this magnificent royal party of yours again?"

"In twelve days," said Elrond. 

~

Elrond worried about three things over the next twelve days. First, that Glorfindel would show up at the birthday party with chopped-off hair, wearing his awful button-up outfit. Second, that he would bring his Doriathren friend.

It was not exactly that Elrond disliked her. She was a good lady, and always nice to him. She fussed over his wind-tangled hair and mended his clothes that tore when he played or dug up rutabagas. She acted exactly as Elrond had always imagined a mother would act. Still, Elrond usually found it uncomfortable to be in her presence. Living with Maglor and Maedhros, he had seen very few women. And the ones he had seen were just like the men, wearing armour and carrying swords. It was nearly impossible to tell them apart when they had their helmets on. But Hedhin acted very much like a woman. She moved gracefully around Glorfindel's little house, long, dark brown hair flowing down her back. She always spoke in a soft voice and wore clothing made from delicate fabric that clung to her ample breasts in an alarming way. It made Elrond wince when she hugged him.

Living with Maglor and Maedhros, Elrond had also never seen adults kissing. He had only seen Maedhros kiss Maglor on the forehead, and that was hardly the same. Glorfindel and Hedhin kissed each other on the mouth. It gave Elrond an unpleasant, squirmy feeling to see them. But worse than the kissing was afterward, when Hedhin started arguing with Glorfindel over when they were going to get married. Glorfindel always said he would consider it. Elrond knew better.

Glorfindel would never marry her, because she was Doriathren and not Vanyarin. Elrond had asked about the possible marriage too, though for a different reason. He was hoping it would never happen. Glorfindel had explained that, while it was fine to get Sindar to join his religion, it was something else entirely to marry one of them. No respectable Vanya would ever do that. Also, at nearly four hundred, she was far too old. For a first marriage, it was very unlucky to have a bride who was older than fifty. Therefore, Glorfindel said, he would marry when he could find a nice, respectable Vanyarin girl, ideally between the ages of thirty-four and forty-three. He then admitted he was probably on the wrong side of the ocean to fulfil that desire.

For this reason, Elrond remained relatively hopeful that Hedhin would not be coming to the party. He was less optimistic about Glorfindel's horrible clothing, because Glorfindel never wore anything else. He had two equally hideous outfits: one red-brown and one green-grey. Both were made in the same style, with tight sleeves that reached just past his elbows and a fitted top that flared out to a wide skirt that hung below his knee. Both were made from wildly coloured fabric, and both were worn over dull grey or beige breeches that tied around the waist. Possibly worst of all, he always had bands of dirty rags bound about his wrists (for reasons that Elrond could not even begin to guess). Elrond had never known any Elf ever to wear such terrible things. Even Maglor's clothes, which were old and dirty, must have been new and nice at one point. Glorfindel's green-grey outfit, even new, was fit to be thrown away.

Elrond had been with Glorfindel when he purchased the fabric from the market earlier in the winter, and though he made a valiant effort at recommending some shiny blue, Glorfindel went ahead with the garish green-grey pattern in the end. Elrond also suspected that Glorfindel made the outfit himself. That would explain why it looked too small and was already falling apart after only a short time's use. He knew Glorfindel made the tie-up breeches; he had seen him roughly stitching the oddly-shaped pieces together. He remembered thinking to himself at the time that he ought to try to convince Erestor to give Glorfindel some good clothes for once.

His third and worst worry, though, was that Glorfindel would not show up at all.

~

The evening before party-day, Círdan and Ereinion found Elrond pacing around the kitchen table, ignoring his supper and looking out of sorts. "Too excited to sit still, aren't you?" Círdan asked.

"Mn," said Elrond, and he shrugged in a wiggly sort of way. He picked up a bread roll and put it down again after only one bite. He felt complicated. Excited and worried and anxious and uncertain all at once. But, all the conflicting feelings disappeared the moment the words "birthday" and "present" passed Ereinion's lips. So he allowed himself to be led through the house to Ereinion's room. Inside, Elros was sitting on the carpet by the fire, playing with a little brown puppy.

Elros' face broke into a silly grin when he saw his brother. "Look!" he said proudly. He shuffled back, letting Elrond approach and sit. "He's our present. From Círdan and Ereinion. His name is Howler." On cue, the puppy lifted his head and let out a high-pitched howl. "He does that a lot," said Elros.

Elrond held out his hand for Howler to sniff, then scratched the little dog under his chin. "His fur is so soft."

"Try picking him up."

Gently, Elrond lifted the puppy into his lap. Howler squirmed, wagging his tail, and bit Elrond's shirt.

Elros laughed. "He's great!"

"Don't bite me, Howler..." said Elrond.

"Maybe he's hungry." Elros turned around to look at Círdan. "Has he had any food yet?"

"Not in a while, no," said Círdan. "You could take him down to the kitchen and see if there are any scraps he might have."

With a nod, Elros took Howler from Elrond's lap and stood. "What do puppies eat?"

"Anything they can find, I think," Ereinion said with a smirk.

"Leftover meat and vegetables, Elros, if there are any," said Círdan.

Elros made a face. "I'll let him choose. Probably would rather have meat."

Elrond followed Elros and Howler, and made it as far as the door when Ereinion said, "Elrond wait." Elrond waited, watching Elros disappear around a bend in the corridor. He turned back to look at Ereinion.

"I have another gift for you," Ereinion said. "This one just for you." He sat down on the edge of his large bed and patted the quilts beside him.

Curious, Elrond came back across the room and hopped up onto the bed beside the King. He watched as Ereinion reached his hand under his pillow and pulled out a worn-looking, green-bound book. "What's that?"

"A very famous book," Ereinion said solemnly, but he winked as he placed it into Elrond's small hands.

"What's famous about it?" Elrond asked. He flipped the cover open, and looked down at the front page. "Words from the Secret City," he read. "For Ereinion, on his... on his ninth birthday! This was yours!" He grinned up at the King, a proud flush of kinship running through his body.

"It was mine," Ereinion said with a nod. "When I was exactly your age."

"But what's famous about it?" Elrond asked again.

Ereinion pointed to the wall. "You see that picture over there?"

Elrond followed the gesture until his gaze landed on a framed painting, one of only two in Ereinion's bare bedroom. He slid off the bed and went closer, to better see its detail.

"My Ada wrote this book for me. It was the only book he ever wrote in Sindarin. And on my ninth birthday, he also had a portrait done of me and him together. You can see in the painting, I'm sitting in his lap. And what do you see in his hand?"

Elrond's eyes met a green cover. "The book! It's in your painting!"

"Indeed it is," said Ereinion. "It's a very famous book, to have its portrait painted with a king."

Grinning, Elrond lifted his fingers to touch the delicate, shimmering surface of the paint, but thought better and pulled his hand back. Instead he stared curiously at Ereinion's painted father. The old King was wearing plain clothes, like he might wear around the house on any day, and his hair fell unplaited over his shoulders. He had no crown. His sharp but noble face was tilted down, toward the little boy in his lap, as he smiled softly. The boy, Ereinion, had a hand clutched around his father's wrist as he looked upward. The smile on his face was bright and open. He looked so small sitting there with his legs dangling over his father's knees. Not even six years old, Elrond guessed.

At that thought, he frowned and stepped back. "Ereinion," he said. "You told me this painting was from when you were nine. But you don't look nine."

Ereinion coughed. "Ah," he said. "Well, I was nine then..." He stopped and cleared his throat again, as if trying to work out what he had to say.

Círdan stepped in to the rescue. "You see, Elrond, Ereinion looks very small in the painting to you because Elven children grow more slowly." He tried to smile reassuringly, but his smile wavered as he saw the look on Elrond's face turn from confusion to fear.

A small but terrible feeling, like a crawling snake, was starting to turn in Elrond's stomach. The back of his neck tingled, and his legs tensed. He knew, somehow, that something was very wrong. This feeling had come to him before. It was always followed by things Elrond wished had never happened. It was the same snake and prickle he had felt before the orcs came and Maglor told him they had to leave Amon Ereb.

He took a breath. "More slowly than what?" he asked carefully.

Círdan opened his mouth, but closed it again silently, like a caught fish. He and Ereinion looked at each other.

"More slowly than what, Círdan?"

"Elrond..." Ereinion said. "When you lived with Maglor and Maedhros, there were other children in the fortress?"

Elrond nodded. "A few."

"And they were... they were children of Men?"

Elrond nodded again.

"The ones that were your age- how big were they?"

Elrond thought back. "About... about as big as I am, I guess." As soon as he said the words, the snake in his stomach became a stone and dropped right to the floor. "Ereinion..." he gasped.

He remembered that once, when he had been much younger, he had asked Maedhros how to tell the difference between Elves and Men. Maedhros had laughed at him and said, "Men have rounded ears." Now his hands shot up lightening-quick to touch the tips. He could feel gentle points under his fingers, and the reassurance of Elven ears. But the stone-snake in his stomach refused to leave. It was still wrong, somehow. He was still wrong. His body was wrong.

Ereinion came to kneel and place strong hands on Elrond's shoulders. He tried to speak in a reassuring voice, saying, "Elrond, listen to me, there is nothing worth worrying over here..." even when the worry was clear enough in his own eyes.

"Am I..." Elrond started, though he could not finish the thought.

Ereinion looked at the floor. "I'm sorry, Elrond, I thought you knew... Your parents. They... ah..."

"They weren't Elves," Elrond whispered. "Not like you."

Both Ereinion and Círdan fell silent. "No..." Círdan finally said. "They..." 

Elrond refused to hear. If he did not know the truth, he wildly reasoned to himself, there would be nothing to worry him. If he did not hear what Círdan had to say, he could pretend it never happened. He could convince himself it had only been a terrible dream, and wake up tomorrow still an Elf like everyone else, like he had been for the past nine years. So he shrugged off Ereinion's hands, which fell easily and helplessly to the King's sides, and ran. He left Ereinion's room behind, and the corridor, and burst through the garden door with a violent shove.

He kept running through the garden, away from the house. As far from Círdan's truth as he could be. To the town centre and the market, where around him, people swarmed to buy their supper foods before the farmers closed their stands at sunset. All of them were Elves. No-one was different. No-one grew too quickly, or had unknown parents. The sight of them, happy and certain in their normal Elven bodies, squeezed at Elrond's chest. He leaned back, sagging against a mount of vegetable sacks. Why him? Why did this error of fate have to be his?

"Are you all right, little boy?"

Elrond felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up into the worried face of the farm lady who owned the vegetable sacks. He tried to speak, but his words were cut by a shaky sob rising from the tightness in his lungs. Gently, the woman used the hem of her apron to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He had not even realised he was crying.

"Are you lost?"

Elrond shook his head. "N-no," he managed to say. He hiccupped through his tears, which seemed to be coming more quickly now.

"What's wrong?" asked the woman.

"I..." Elrond began. He hiccupped again, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "How old do you think I am?" he asked quietly.

"Oh," she said, "I'd say you look eighteen, at least. Maybe twenty? Why?"

"It's my birthday tomorrow," Elrond mumbled.

"Well that's no reason to be so sad," said the woman. She took an apple from one of her baskets and gave it to Elrond. "Here you go. Maybe this will make you feel better. Where do you live? Do you need help finding your way home?"

"No... I... I know my way..."

The farm woman smoothed down his hair. "You should be getting home, then. It's nearly dark. Your mother will worry about you."

His mother. His non-Elven mother. Elrond screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his hands over his face, wet and raw in the cool night wind. His head was too full of thoughts. "I'm going now," he said into his hands.

"Hurry home," said the farm woman. "Don't lose yourself, now."

Elrond would not lose himself. He was a day short of nine years old, but he still knew the way in the dark. He would go to the place where he knew he could get simple answers with no careful words or roundabout phrases, answers that could clear away the spinning questions in his head. He was going to Glorfindel's house.

~ 

Hedhin was boiling a pot of tea after supper by the time Elrond finally made his way down the road to Glorfindel's door. Glorfindel picked him up immediately, wiping away the dusty tear-lines from his face, and carried him to a chair by the fire. He leaned hard against Glorfindel's shoulder, burying his burning eyes.

"Elrond, what happened?"

"I want you to tell me about my parents," Elrond sobbed. "I know they weren't Elves. Not like you. I want to know who they were."

For a long moment, Glorfindel was quiet, and Elrond feared he too would weave around the subject. But he finally spoke. "They were Halfelven, Elrond, and so are you. Descended from both Elves and Men. Did Maglor never tell you about them?"

Elrond shook his head, still pressing into Glorfindel's shoulder.

"It's too late for the whole story now," Glorfindel said with a sigh. "But if you stay the night here, I'll tell you in the morning." He sighed again, and kissed the top of Elrond's head. "You never knew?"

Again, Elrond shook his head.

"I guess... that must be a shock to you. I'm sorry."

"Tell me about them now," said Elrond. "I want to know now."

"There's no use telling anything when you're so upset. You need some sleep first, and tomorrow I promise I will tell you everything I can.

Elrond sniffed. "It's my birthday tomorrow." The sudden thought of his ruined birthday made him want to cry almost as much as the dishonesty of his family. New tears formed in his eyes.

"I know," said Glorfindel.

"The lady at the market thought I was twenty."

Glorfindel looked down at him. "That would be about right."

"But I'm not right," he said.

"That's not what I meant..." Glorfindel hugged him closer, rocking him gently for a long while. "Come on then," he said at last as he stood. "You need some rest. You'll feel better in the morning after sleeping. I'll make you up a bed."

Hedhin, who had so far remained silent as she minded the tea, suddenly raised her voice. "Oh no no," she said. "The floor is too hard here, and it's cold tonight. He should stay in our bed."

"Um," said Glorfindel.

But Hedhin was already crossing the floor to stand close to Elrond and cup his chin in her hand. "You don't want to stay out here by yourself, Elrond, do you? Not on a cold, windy night when you're so upset. You should be with us. Why, we like to think of you as our own child, you're here so often. We're just like a family."

Glorfindel made a soft growling sound as even Elrond caught the rather pointed hint. But Hedhin had her way, and Elrond wound up positioned awkwardly between the two of them in Glorfindel's small bed. They were just like a very strange family: Vanyarin father, Doriathren mother, Halfelven child. It was some comfort, Elrond found, to have been given a proper name for what he was. Though he still found it difficult to sleep.

~ 

Elrond woke up the next morning snuggled close to Hedhin. Only a very thin layer of flimsy fabric separated his cheek from her bosom. Blushing terribly, he quickly slid out of bed and, when he was sure she was asleep and not watching, pulled on his clothes. In the other room, he could hear Glorfindel moving about making breakfast.

"Good morning," said Glorfindel as Elrond stumbled into the bright main room, rubbing his eyes.

"Morning," Elrond mumbled.

Glorfindel handed him a cup of hot tea. He quickly took a sip, before Glorfindel could remember that nine-year-olds should not be drinking tea. Erestor never let him have any.

"Feel any older?"

"No," said Elrond. In truth he did, mostly because he was drinking tea, but he was still certain Glorfindel would take the cup away if he drew attention to the fact.

"Círdan came by late last night, when you were asleep," said Glorfindel. "He was worried about you running away like that. Why didn't you tell him you were coming here?"

Elrond shrugged. "I don't know... I didn't think I would come here when I left."

"You shouldn't do that," Glorfindel said quietly as he sat down at Elrond's side. "They were very worried about you. You could have been lost or hurt... Círdan was so relieved when I told him you were here. Promise me, Elrond, that you'll always let them know when you come out here. I don't want another talking-to if they think it's my fault you're running off. I'm already enough of a pariah, believe me."

"Sorry," said Elrond, and he was: sorry that Círdan and Ereinion were angry at Glorfindel on his account.

"Are you feeling better, at least?"

Elrond nodded. "I think so." He felt less like crying, at least, which was an improvement. An aching sadness still beat in his chest, but it had dulled with sleep.

"Then come here," said Glorfindel. He crossed to the table. "I want to show you something."

"What?" Elrond asked, and he followed Glorfindel. On the table, he could see a map drawn on a large sheet of heavy cloth. "A map?"

"It is a map. And when we write names and places and histories on it, it becomes what's called a 'map biography'. This map biography will be yours. I thought it might help you better understand your ancestry." Glorfindel dipped a pen in a little pot of ink, handed it to Elrond, and asked, "Do you know where you were born?"

Elrond shook his head, no.

"Here," said Glorfindel. He pointed to the mouth of a wide river in the south-west of the continent. "The Havens of Sirion in Avernien. Write your name there, and your brother's."

Elrond hesitated, unsure of whether Glorfindel really wanted him to ruin the map with his childishly printed name, but Glorfindel only smiled reassuringly at him. So he put the pen to the map. It made a small blotch, but Elrond still wrote, "ELROS, ELROND".

"Now your father and mother," Glorfindel continued, "were born further away. Here, for your mother." He pointed to the middle of a large forest to the north. "Her name was Elwing. You can write that here. This is the realm of Doriath- yes, right there, good- where her father ruled for a short time as king. His name was Dior. And he was born... way down here. Elwing's mother, Nimloth, was also born in Doriath, so you can put Nimloth right beside Elwing."

As Glorfindel listed the names, Elrond wrote them all over the forests that made up Doriath: Elwing, Nimloth, Galathil, Lúthien. Then the names that came from Cuiviénen, which was off the eastern edge of the map. Elrond had to write them down the right-hand side: Thingol and Elmo. According to Glorfindel, Melian had no birthplace. Elrond wrote her name over Nan Elmoth, where she first met Thingol. Beren was another problematic name. Glorfindel had no idea where he was born, so Elrond wrote his name in the middle of large blank area, and drew a tiny house next to it. "There," he said. "Now Beren has somewhere to live."

"That's perfect," said Glorfindel. "Now should we do your father's side?"

Elrond nodded eagerly.

"Your father was born up here, near the top of the map, in Gondolin. His name was Eärendil."

"How do you spell that?" asked Elrond.

"You'd better give me the pen. It's written in the Quenya mode. There- Eärendil. But his mother, Idril, was born all the way over here." Glorfindel pointed to the far side of the map, where, on the other side of the wide sea, a shoreline was drawn. He gave the pen back to Elrond. "Write Idril here, by Tirion. Her parents, Turgon and Elenwë, were also born there, and Turgon's parents, Fingolfin and Anairë. Finwë and Indis, Fingolfin's parents, can go on the Cuiviénen list. I'll write the Quenya names." 

"And Eärendil's father?" Elrond asked when the names had been written.

"He's another problem," said Glorfindel. "His name was Tuor, but as for his birthplace..." Glorfindel made a vague poking gesture to the mountainous lands west of Gondolin. "Somewhere over here, maybe?"

Elrond wrote, "TUOR" and drew another tiny house. The two lone mortal Men in this sea of Elves had their own houses.

"Now," said Glorfindel, "we can add a few more names."

They added Glorfindel's name in Valmar, south-west of Tirion, Ereinion's name in Eithel Sirion, north of Gondolin, Erestor's name by the lake west of Eithel Sirion, and Círdan's name in the Cuiviénen column. Maglor and Maedhros went to Tirion. They filled in more names. Ereinion's father, Fingon, in Tirion, beside Fëanor, father of Maglor and Maedhros.

"Now you see," said Glorfindel, "how you are related to the King. Your grandmother Idril was his cousin. Maglor and Maedhros may not be your true uncles, but they are cousins to Turgon. So they are blood relatives."

The next while was spent drawing spidery dotted lines all over the map, connecting cousins with uncles with daughters with grandparents and adding more names. They drew little pictures beside the names to remind Elrond who was who. Elwing had a bird by her name. Eärendil had a little boat. Ingwë had a great crown. Beren had one shining jewel, while Fëanor had three. Glorfindel, who was a very good artist, told more and more about each name as the pictures were drawn. It seemed to Elrond, looking at this map, that he was somehow related to every important Elven ruler that ever lived- a fact that Glorfindel verified.

"You are a descendant of all three Kings, Elrond," he said, "plus great warriors of Men and the Maia Melian. I think it's easy to see that you have nothing to be ashamed of in your ancestry. You should be proud of it. No one in this world but you and your brother has such a rich family history."

The map was not perfect. It had ink drips and a splatter from where Elrond had dropped the pen, the dotted lines were uneven, and one misspelled name had been crossed out and rewritten. But in spite of the flaws, it was still a wondrous thing to behold. And, staring down at it, Elrond could not help but feel the rush of pride. All of these great people, all the marks on the map, were part of his family. All of these fantastic names were his grandparents, uncles, and distant cousins. It would be a crime to be ashamed of any one of them.

Glorfindel smiled down at him. "Do you feel better now?"

Elrond traced a finger over the dotted line connecting him to Eärendil. "Yes," he said. It was true; he did feel better. He smiled back at Glorfindel.

"Happy birthday." Glorfindel rolled up the map carefully and tied it with a big of ragged orange fabric.

"Glorfindel..." Elrond began, "can we make a map for Erestor too? It's also his birthday today. Elros can maybe share mine, but Erestor should have his own."

"Of course. But it'll be far less crowded... I don't know anything about his family."

"We can put his friends on it, though," said Elrond. "You and Ereinion and Círdan, Maedhros and Maglor..."

Glorfindel nodded. "He'd like that." He crossed to a basket in the corner and pulled out another piece of heavy cloth to lay on the table. "However," he said as he began drawing the coastline of Valinor, "we won't make it as big as yours. Wouldn't want silly old Erestor to get a better present than you, would you?" He grinned at Elrond.

Elrond, holding his map, grinned back.


	3. Black Sky and Red Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Near the end of the First Age, Maedhros and Maglor are driven out of Beleriand and end up in the only remaining safe haven: the Isle of Balar. They bring with them the eight-year-old sons of Erendil. Implied slash and AU aspects.

Ereinion welcomed Elrond home with a look of unqualified relief. "Elrond," he sighed, crushing him in a protective embrace. "Oh, thank the stars you're back... Círdan said you were at... safe... but still I couldn't help but worry."

"I'm alright," said Elrond. He wiggled to free himself from Ereinion, who was also crushing the maps he had carried so carefully all the way back from Glorfindel's house.

"I couldn't sleep worrying about you..."

"I am alright. Honest." He managed to squirm around so he faced forward, but Ereinion picked him up and started toward the kitchen. "I've had breakfast, too. You can put me down."

"I told your brother everything this morning," said Ereinion, who was clearly not paying attention. "Everything I know about your ancestry. I should have told you this when you first arrived. I'm sorry I put it off... it was wrong to do so."

"But I already..."

Ereinion carried Elrond into the breakfast room and sat him down on one of the plain wooden chairs. He sighed, and his face was serious. "As you probably guessed last night, your parents weren't Elven. Not as Círdan and Erestor and I are."

"I _know_ ," said Elrond. "I know about them. And my grandparents, too."

Taken aback, Ereinion blinked and let his mouth fall open.

"Glorfindel told me," Elrond quickly added. "This morning. See? We made a map." Carefully, he untied his large map and spread it over the tabletop. "It's called a map biography, Glorfindel said. There's my name, and my mother's name, and my father's name, and even your name way up here... You're my cousin somehow. Look. Oh and we also made one for Erestor, for his birthday."

"Glorfindel... told you all this?" Ereinion asked. His eyes wandered suspiciously over the map.

"Mm-hmm. He told me all about everyone while we were writing the names and making the drawings."

"Oh," Ereinion said flatly. "What did he say about... hmm. Not important." He sat down in the chair opposite Elrond and regarded the map with a glare of suspicion.

Elrond felt his stomach sink. He had expected Ereinion to be impressed by the map, happy with it, and as proud of it as he was. Not this strange loathing. "Is something wrong?" he asked quietly. "Did... did we spell your name wrong? I couldn't remember if it was with AI or EI."

"No, you have it right. It's nothing," said Ereinion, and he shook his head and forced a smile. "What exactly did Glorfindel tell you about your parents?"

Elrond looked down at the map, glancing between 'EÄRENDIL' and 'ELWING'. "He said their names. And where they lived, and what they did, a bit."

"Did he tell you how they died?"

"They were lost at sea." Elrond's eyes fixed on the little boat drawn beside Eärendil's name. "They went out sailing one day and never came back."

"And how you and Elros came to live with Maglor and Maedhros?"

"He said they must've been around when my parents died, and just decided to look after us because they're part of our family."

Ereinion's frown faded somewhat as he sighed a relieved sort of sigh. "Right," he said. "Good. That's good."

"Ereinion..." said Elrond, "if my parents were lost at sea, nobody knows if they're really dead, right?"

"Not for certain, no... nobody can ever say for certain when things like that happen. But the chances are so small. They've been gone five years."

"But they might be alive. Maybe they found an island somewhere. Maybe they got all the way to Aman and decided to stay there."

"Don't dwell on it, Elrond," Ereinion said quietly. "It's not good to give yourself false hope."

~

Even though it was past dinner time, Elros was still trying to sleep when Elrond entered the bedroom. Howler was running around on the floor, growling and wrestling with one of Elros' shoes. He barked when he saw Elrond.

"Nnn..." Elros rolled over and pulled the covers up to his eyes. "Make him be quiet..." he said, and waved a floppy hand at Howler, who continued barking.

"You should get out of bed," said Elrond. He poked the end of his rolled-up map toward Howler. The dog stopped barking long enough to sniff it.

"Too tired," said Elros. He rolled over again, onto his back, and let out a long yawn. "Dog kept me up all night. He wanted to play, then wanted to go pee, then wanted to sleep, but he got up after a few minutes and kept jumping over me, then he wanted to play again, then he started barking so I went to the kitchen to get him some food, then it got so windy he started shaking and whining, then he peed on the floor, so I took him outside again, then he tried to run away... Where were you?"

"Glorfindel's house."

"Oh. You should've said you were going, I would've came too. Ereinion made me get up really early this morning so he could tell me a bunch of things Mada already told me ages ago."

Elrond froze, then slowly turned around to look at his brother. "Mada told you... what?"

Elros yawned again. "You know. Like about our family and Elves and Men. It was boring to have to listen to him. And he kept asking if I was alright, like I was going to get upset when he told me things I already knew... I'm not a baby."

"Oh," said Elrond. He sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling suddenly light-headed. Elros already knew about being Halfelven. Maedhros had obviously told him long ago. So why hadn't Maedhros told Elrond?

"I said the only thing Mada didn't tell me was how our parents died. So I asked Ereinion that, but he wouldn't say."

"Their boat was lost at sea," Elrond said hollowly. "Glorfindel told me."

"Oh. Well that's not bad. The way Ereinion looked at me when I asked him made me think it was something really terrible."

"It is terrible!" said Elrond. "When you're lost at sea, you run out of water and you die of thirst. It takes a long time!" He felt suddenly angry at Elros, and angrier at Maedhros, for their secret conspiracy of knowledge. It had hardly been Elros' fault that Maedhros had told him, but why had he not shared what he learned? Why had he known their history all this time while Elrond had been allowed to carry on stupidly, in his false security, until the granted truths of his life cracked and fell around him? Disgusted, he fell backward onto his bed and lay staring up at the ceiling.

"I meant terrible like getting eaten by wolves or something," said Elros. "Or getting their heads cut off by orcs."

"Shut up," Elrond snapped. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know more than you!" shouted Elros.

And that was the exact cause of Elrond's anger. Elros did know more. Or at least he had. The unfairness made Elrond's fists clench. Elros had always been Maedhros' favourite, though it had never bothered him so much. He knew he had been Maglor's. Then, he reasoned, if Maedhros told Elros, Maglor should have told him. He felt suddenly angry with Maglor, too.

As he stared hard at the ceiling, watching dust particles float through the sunbeam falling onto his feet, he heard Elros slide out of bed. Footsteps crossed the floor, and the door opened and closed. Howler's playful barks took off and faded down the corridor. Grumpily, he turned over to lie on his side. Directly in his line of vision, on the bedside table, lay an old green book. Ereinion must have put it there for him.

Elrond grabbed the book and flipped it open more roughly than he intended; his hand made a small tear across the top of the title page. Guiltily, as his anger was not directed toward this innocent book, he set it down on his pillow and turned the next page with care. He read;

_A last gasp of divinity turns back_ __

To a time when poems had the power to steal a heart

__

To a time when a touch on the hand meant purest love

__

And we were content.

__

It was a book of poems. He turned to the next page.

_In those streets, an old wind stirs the memory_ __

Of ancient life and sorrow, 

__

Flying like sparks between gate and tower. 

__

Fickle as snow. 

__

Those who remain will sing to brand the city 

__

With the fire of lost bodies, 

__

So that in further years 

__

They, too, will shed history 

__

Onto listeners among the stones.

__

They were sentiments that Elrond did not fully understand, but he knew it was a poem of sadness and regret, looking back to things lost. The words rang very true to him, somehow. He had lost things in his life so far, some of them before he even realised what he had missed. His parents were gone. The first four years of his life had disappeared without a trace. He had never known the great cities and civilisations of the world, never seen Eithel Sirion or Eglarest or any of the places Glorfindel and Erestor and Ereinion sadly recalled. They had all disappeared before he was born. He missed them more for it, he thought, with a longing that could never be sated. The others had memories of these places, but he had only the haunting words of poems written by a man long dead. No matter what came in the future, he would never know the beauty and power of what had been lost. 

He turned the page again. There was a picture with this next poem, of a high tower on a distant hill, standing in a ray of light.

_You can see, child, in your dreaming eyes,_ __

Unmatched splendour of a land long gone:

__

Unused sword on empty throne,

__

Silver light by moonless skies.

__

You can hear, child, in your dreaming mind,

__

Fair faint chimes from the secret locked tower.

__

Ghostly voices mourn the hour,

__

Echo fading song and line.

__

You will weep, child, when the grasp is gone,

__

When the mist comes down around your soul,

__

Western law denies your goal

__

Banished, too, from Tirion.

__

"Banished, too, from Tirion." Elrond read the last line over again, aloud to himself. Was Tirion the Secret City? It seemed hardly secret, if Glorfindel had been there and so many of the names on Elrond's map were from there. He unrolled the map over the end of his bed and leaned over the coast of Valinor. Tirion was prominent in black ink. Beside the name was a drawing of a tall tower on a hill. Similar, Elrond saw, to the drawing in the book. And, he noted, Ereinion's father's name was written under Tirion. He had been born there, and could never return by the sounds of the poems. Had the city been destroyed? Or had only some been forced to leave? It was one of those things, again, that Maglor ought have told him and Ereinion likely assumed he already knew. Elros, perhaps, already knew. That possibility brought a new surge of anger.

He would not be made to look an idiot again. The book would give him the clues he needed; he was sure of it. He turned back to it, flipped to the next page, and went on reading with a burning determination. Sometimes aloud, but sometimes with an imaginary voice in his head. He imagined Fingon reading the poems to him, as the old King must have read to Ereinion eighty-six years earlier. In his mind, Fingon's voice sounded rather like Glorfindel, but with Maglor's stronger Quenya accent. He read straight through to the back cover. 

~ 

Erestor was generally credited with introducing the concept of underwear to Balar. He came from a cold and damp northerly climate where such things had been necessary. However, as Balar was as warm on the first day of spring as Hithlum had been in the height of summer, Elrond found the whole idea of underwear somewhat ridiculous. He was warm enough wearing a little cape over his tunic and breeches. Wearing itchy woollen pants and vest would only make him uncomfortable.

But of course he said nothing of this to Erestor, who still held the title of best-dressed Elf on the island. The best-dressed Elf on the island was more of an authority than a newly-turned nine-year-old when it came to clothes. Elrond put on everything Erestor laid out for him, without question. Today he could endure underwear for the sake of a very attractive new birthday gift in the form a tunic, bright turquoise with silver trim, and proper trousers, long and grey and tight-fitting, like grown-ups wore. Elros had been given a matching outfit, though his tunic was red and gold.

Erestor's present to himself was a very fashionable new mantle made of tawny brown velvet, knee-length and fastened so it hung over one shoulder, and a darker brown floor-length frock-robe with sleeves so tight the damask creased and squeaked when he bent his elbows. Elrond had to help him lace it down the sides; it was also very tight across the chest. Fitted to the point of being impractical, Erestor explained, was the new style. He had to practice sitting down, and only managed to do so on the very edge of a chair while he leaned his shoulders back and stretched his legs out in front. It was lazy, regal pose that suited the outfit. All he needed was a silver wine goblet to twirl in one hand while looking bored. Elrond made a note to fetch him one at the party.

Then he made a second note to ask Erestor if he would forcibly redress Glorfindel in the event that Glorfindel showed up for the party in his usual rags. Erestor's clothes would be very tight on Glorfindel, who was somewhat taller. It would coincide with the new fashion perfectly.

~

By afternoon, Elrond's doubts turned to wide eyes and awed silence. Glorfindel arrived early, alone, with hair intact. And he looked like a king of the old world that Maglor used to speak of in stories. His awful button-up garment had been replaced by a proper robe of shining silver and green. It not only reached the floor as it should, but even had length to spare and pool behind him. On his golden hair rested a thin circlet of silver. He wore silver earrings, and wide gold bracelets on each wrist. His eyes were lined black, his skin powdered white, and his lips painted red. He even carried himself differently, trading the careless swagger of a farmer for more precise and delicate mannerisms of court.

If Erestor had been the king of the beach, then Glorfindel was certainly the king of the entire island. The real King, in his fashionably tight but plain velvet tunic, looked like a lesser courtier despite his crown. He scowled at Glorfindel's sensational appearance. Elrond pretended not to notice. He could think of no reason, after all, to be dissatisfied with Glorfindel in any way. He was perfect. But Ereinion, already frowning in annoyance, stepped forward to block the door. Glorfindel bowed his head and smiled sweetly. 

"Afternoon, my dear lord. You are looking well."

"And you look like an overrated whore," Ereinion hissed, "though that is hardly surprising. What are you doing here?"

"I was invited," said Glorfindel. His smile never faltered. "By our young Elrond. It is his birthday."

Elrond nodded his agreement. "I asked him to come."

Reluctantly, Ereinion stepped to the side, if only for Elrond's sake. His frown of distaste stayed firmly in place and followed Glorfindel through the hall. Glorfindel smiled, winked, and patted Elrond on the shoulder.

"Come on, Elrond," he said. "I have a present for you."

Elrond followed without hesitance. Years down the road, he would name the day of that party as the day he first fell in love.

~

"Now I realise these may be a bit much for a pair of nine-year-olds," Glorfindel said. "But I would like you and your brother to have them."

Across Elrond's bed, he unrolled a length of fabric. From its crinkled depths came two identical hunting knives. Elrond's mouth dropped open at the sight.

"They're Doriathren knives," said Glorfindel. He picked one up and held it out at arm's length so Elrond could see. "They were given me by a friend a long time ago, and were the first weapons I ever learned how to use." A quick spin and slash at the air emphasised his words. "However... I have had no call for fighting in my life. They sit uselessly in my house. A real shame. So I thought, since there are two knives, of Doriathren origin, and two of you, of Doriathren heritage..." Resting the knife on his fingertips, he turned to face Elrond.

Elrond picked it up as gingerly as if he were handling butterfly wings. But his weak, uncertain grasp was hardly adequate to take the blade. It was far heavier than he expected.

"Use both hands," Glorfindel prompted. "It's a big weight if you're not prepared for it."

Using both hands this time, Elrond took the knife from Glorfindel. The white wood handle was as long as his forearm and easily accommodated his double grip. The blade of the knife, longer than the handle, seemed almost like a sword in his hands. He moved it, slowly and carefully, up and down and side to side. "Is it sharp?" he asked.

"Yes, very," said Glorfindel. "Or at least it was when I last checked. But that was near five hundred years ago." He picked up the second knife and thumbed the edge. "This one seems sharp."

Carefully, Elrond set his knife back onto the bed. He stepped back, eyeing it with an uncertain gaze. "What... do I use it for?"

Glorfindel laughed. "Nothing yet, I hope. It's just something to have and keep in your room all wrapped up for the next five hundred years."

"Oh," said Elrond, and he sighed in relief. "Good." He stepped forward to touch the satiny wooden handle again. It was easier to appreciate the beauty and craftsmanship of a hunting knife when he knew he would never have to do any actual hunting. A slow smile spread across his face. "Thank you," he murmured, and turned to wrap his arms tightly around Glorfindel's waist.

"I'm glad you like it. But there's one thing I have to ask."  


Elrond looked up. "What?"

"Don't tell Elros about them just yet," said Glorfindel. "He's not as... ah... careful as you are. The knives are well-made, but they're also old and very valuable. So I want you to keep his safe until he's old enough not to break or lose it, or accidentally cut his fingers off."

Elrond laughed. "I will." He helped Glorfindel roll the knives back in the fabric, and they hid the bundle under his bed.

"Did you give Erestor his map?" Glorfindel asked.

"No... there wasn't..." There was no time, Elrond thought. Erestor had given him his present, then he had helped Erestor to dress, and it had seemed an awkward thing to give a crude, handmade scroll to someone so perfectly fashionable. "We were too busy getting ready for the party."

Glorfindel grinned. "Ah, of course. Our dear Erestor would have bought himself a new outfit, wouldn't he?"

"Brown," said Elrond. "Really tight. That's the new style, he said. But I like yours better."

"Mine is old," Glorfindel said. "Quite a bit older than Erestor, in fact. Left over from a time when courtiers flaunted their wealth and status through extravagant excesses of fabric. The exact opposite of this new fitted style, which I believe comes out of a necessity to conserve everything on our island of limited resources. In those days, at the height of Fingolfin's power, it was almost like a contest to see who could show off the largest garment and waste the most imported silk. You see the front here..." He gestured to his feet, where a wide fold had been stitched up, looking as if whoever made the robe had cut it far too long. "It started as just a little thing, for decoration. Some tailor folded the hem to the outside instead of in. But then it grew a bit bigger, and a bit bigger, until soon the style was to have an extra quarter-yard of fabric folded up around your ankles. The same sometimes happened with cuffs. It was meant to show that you had more money than sense, if you spent all that gold on something that served no purpose."

"Why did you do it, then?"

"Because I had far more money than sense," Glorfindel said with a grin. "I owned hundreds of robes like this. Still have about thirty stashed away at home. After all that money spent, I couldn't bear to part with them, even though they're outdated and really no use to me."

Elrond stared longingly at the shimmering fabric, the luxurious drape, and the perfect embroidery. "You should dress like this all the time."

Laughing, Glorfindel held his arms straight out at his sides. The tips of his sleeves fell down to the floor. "I would," he said, "but for the obstacle that such styles don't lend themselves to rutabaga farming. As you can see."

Elrond grudgingly agreed. But, he thought, there might be a chance he could convince Glorfindel to wear the grand clothes while not actively digging up vegetables in the field. He would have to remember to mention this next time he was at Glorfindel's house.

~

Elrond tried to stay as close as possible to Glorfindel throughout the evening, but as guests arrived and the party progressed, that proved impossible. King-of-the-Island Glorfindel was holding court in a corner of the dining hall, and for someone who allegedly favoured a rutabaga farm over city life, he certainly seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention. Shrieks of laughter rose and fell from the crowd gathered around his makeshift throne. Elrond could hear snatches of stories, terribly amusing stories by the sounds of things, but he never managed to get close enough for his liking. Whenever he strayed too far into the inner court circle, someone would pick him up and carry him off, admonishing that the tales being told were certainly not for a child's ears. A respectable-looking lady even went so far as to cover those childish ears before she clucked her tongue and carried him off. So Elrond, discouraged, had to settle for sitting off to the side with Erestor and Ereinion.

The King looked wrathful. A dark glare of loathing, aimed squarely at Glorfindel's court, twisted his face. He growled in his throat at every swell of the crowd's laughter. And though he did make an effort to smile as Elrond approached, the forced cheeriness soon died. Elrond decided to sit on the far side of Erestor. Erestor had discovered that if he hitched up his frock-robe so that the side slits came to his waist, he could sit upright. His underpants were showing.

"Are you enjoying the party, Elrond?" Erestor asked.

"No," said Elrond. A sudden lump formed in his throat as he said the word, as if realising only then how disappointed he was.

"What's the matter?"

Ereinion snorted. "That's obvious. Glorfindel pulling his usual Queen of Ëa routine. Never mind the rest of us who have to sit through it. Listen to that!"

"Would you like me to tell him to stop?" Erestor asked dryly. "Because I'm sure he'd listen..."

"Do you know where Elros went?" Elrond asked. His question was ignored.

"He's talking about my father again," said Ereinion. "I know he is."

Erestor rolled his eyes. "Well, stories about a High King are a bit more exciting than stories about turnips."

"Rutabagas," said Elrond. Erestor and Ereinion ignored that as well.

"Look," said Erestor, "what if you just pay no attention to him, we'll have some wine-"

A sudden howling chorus of laughter and crash of applause made Ereinion slam his hands down on the bench. "That son of a dog!" he hissed. He leapt up, eyes flashing and fists clenched, and stalked from the room without another word.

Erestor sighed his disappointment. "Well Elrond... fancy going to see if the cake is ready?"

Elrond ignored him. He stood up and walked away, in the opposite direction from Ereinion, to begin a search for his brother. Elros and Howler, at least, might pay him some attention.

~

"His entire life's purpose is to mock me!" said Ereinion. "Everything he does, everything he thinks... Is there even one moment when he is not calculating exactly what damage he can do, and which way would be most effective to do it?"

He slammed his wine goblet down on the table, then seemed to reconsider, picking it up again and taking another drink. "How am I supposed to compete with that level of dedication? Should I live my life in anticipation of what he might do next? Waste every hour planning strategies of how to counteract his assaults? Is it even possible to teach myself not to be so hurt, even when I know all he ever wants to do is cause me pain? That he has spent the last two hundred years actively causing pain, and is now a grand master in the discipline?"

All Círdan could offer was a comforting, if misplaced, smile. "He wasn't thinking of you, Ereinion."

"I know!" Ereinion shouted. "He never thinks of me! Never even considers that perhaps his horrible antics cause me harm and grief! It's all a ridiculous game to him! See how far he can push me before I snap entirely! Well tonight I think I have! I'll take no more of this! No more! If I have to chain him or whip him or lock him away until the least possibility of him ever tormenting me again has passed, I will do it! One step further, Círdan, one more word from him, and I swear I will!"

Círdan spent a moment in silence, tapping his fingertips together. "What I meant was," he finally said, "I don't think it's you he wants to anger."  
  
"Well, who else?" Ereinion snarled.

"If he wanted to hurt you in specific," said Círdan, "he would do it directly. Listing your father's faults or mistakes, trivialising his death, blaming him for whatever he feels your father is worth blaming. He knows how proud you are of your family, and that's where he'd attack you. But what he's doing now, reminiscing about the good old days and telling his scandalous stories from the bedrooms of royalty- I think that's meant to inspire jealousy. In someone somewhat... closer to your father."

A sudden understanding washed over Ereinion like a wave. "Oh," he said feebly. He sat down at Círdan's side and wrapped both hands tightly around the stem of his goblet. "I see."

~

The first time Maedhros met Glorfindel was the year after Fingolfin's death. He went to Eithel Sirion to offer his condolences to his cousin, and found a carefully crafted web of destruction. Fingon, once strong and fearless, had degraded into a shadowy remnant of his former glory. He sat on the king's throne, worrying the king's crown with his shaking fingers, utterly broken by his father's death and his son's departure. He was lost. He turned to his advisor for every decision that faced him.

The advisor, a snake of a Vanyarin man, gave the same advice over and over. "Do nothing. Sit and wait for death. You are finished. You have nothing. You are nothing." Fingon followed those words without question. Maedhros supposed he would have died, a long and lingering death on that throne, if not for the fortunate timing of the visit.

Maedhros had two days to rally his cousin's spirits. Two days was all it took for Glorfindel to draw up the official papers proclaiming him banished from Hithlum forever on charges of treasonous interference. At their parting, Fingon could not even remember signing the order. But there was hope for him, which Maedhros kindled. "Do not let your father's legacy fall to dust," he said. "Do not let your kingdom fall. You are stronger than this, Findekáno. You must take back the power of the old kingdom, for the sake of those who depend on you." Then he kissed his shattered cousin goodbye. Fingon's body felt like glass in his arms, cold and brittle.

Before he left, he delivered a promise to Glorfindel. If they met again, Maedhros would kill him. He swore by his father's name.

Glorfindel laughed hollowly at the threat. "Your cousin did that long ago," he said. And Maedhros could see; his eyes were lifeless as a corpse's.

The next time they met was in the chaos of the Havens of Sirion. Maedhros almost failed to recognise his cousin's old advisor, who had traded palace silks for the comfortable linens of a seaside village. Glorfindel stood, sword awkwardly in hand, barring a road at the village's centre. A look of brave determination was set in his soot-streaked face. But when he saw Maedhros, the bravery melted into panic and cowardice. He froze, then bolted like an animal. Maedhros followed.

There was no time for begging, no pleading for mercy. Only a sharp slash across the stomach: a slow and painful way to die. Maedhros left him, gasping and writhing, to bleed in the shadow of a rotting tree. He was satisfied that the wound was sufficient to prevent Glorfindel from returning to the village, and that he lay too far to be found in time, if there were any survivors to find him.

But now, as he sat in the dining hall flanked by four armed guards, he bitterly regretted not finishing the job properly. It was a lesson from his father he should have studied more diligently. Do it right the first time, if it is worth doing at all. _How did he live?_ he wondered. _Was he found, out of luck? Or did I underestimate his stamina, and he was able to stumble back to the village? Was the cut not as deep as it looked? Were we followed? Was he helped by animals?_ He dismissed the last option as too improbable.

With the guards holding him back, he could only stare at his sworn enemy with a burning hatred. Glorfindel laughed and accepted a cup of wine. Over the rim, their eyes met. Glorfindel's haughty smirk was half hidden by the cup, which he raised ever so slightly to Maedhros' presence. A thorn of the past came back to sting him again.

"While you sleep," Maedhros muttered. "I'll be there."

"Quiet," said the guard to his left.

~ 

Elrond put himself to bed quietly, not bothering to return to the party to say his good-nights to Glorfindel or Erestor or Ereinion. He dreamed of the Secret City that night. He could see it on a distant hill, like the picture in the poem book. He could hear the chimes, and a strange song that sounded like slow, mournful words layered over quick ascending and descending scales on flutes and harps. The tower, shining with silver light, beckoned him. There was no moon or sun in the sky, and the stars were faint pinpricks.

But as he walked, the sky darkened. Not with time, but with every step he took. If he walked slowly, the dark came more slowly. If he ran, the dark ran with him. The tower's silver light was fading, and the song with it, replaced by the sound of crashing waves. _Hurry_ , Elrond told himself. _The tower... the locked tower... the secret is inside... I need to know..._

He had the key in his hand. He opened the door. The dark inside the tower was so thick he could hardly see, but the scarce light that remained was enough to show him a rough wooden staircase spiralling upward. Urgently, he began to run. Sandy wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet. Sometimes, through the darkness, he could see old wooden rooms branching off at his sides. They seemed hazily familiar, as if from a secret and forgotten part of his past. But he had no time to stop. The top of the tower was so near. The top of the locked tower held the secret. He kept running upward.

He burst out onto a sandy wooden platform in the heavy, thick darkness. But instead of Tirion, this tower overlooked the sea. The darkness was so thick. He strained see a boat bobbing on stormy, white-capped waves. A single row boat battered by the storm. A single man in the boat. "Erestor!" he shouted. 

In the boat, Erestor turned slowly to look up at Elrond.

"Erestor!" Elrond shouted again. "You must get to shore! A storm is coming!"

But Erestor only stared back, blankly. He began to stand. Elrond held his breath. For a moment, Erestor stood still in the rocking boat, holding Elrond's terrified gaze. Then, he lifted his arms out away from his body, and let himself fall backward into the churning water.

"NO!" Elrond screamed. "ERESTOR!"

Erestor's body was covered by the waves. They were no longer black water waves, but red, like blood. The tower had moved Elrond so close that he could see the bright redness and the flickering flames reflected on the water's surface. It was on fire. The tower was burning. Its shining white sides had turned to red and flame like the water. The heat and smoke were suffocating. Blindly, Elrond stumbled back to the trap door in the sandy wooden floor. He cowered beneath it, sobbing, as the fire flew around him. He was on a stone floor, in a corner made by wooden walls. Elros was sleeping at his side. They were trapped by the inferno.

"HELP ME!" he cried. "MALO, HELP ME!"

Through the smoke, he could see a figure approaching. It was a man with long auburn hair, his armour dented and charred and spattered with blood. His right hand was missing. It was Maedhros.

"Mada!" wept Elrond. "Help me!" He held up his arms for Maedhros to take him, hold him, carry him away from the terror. But Maedhros, grim-faced, only raised his bloody sword above his head and swung it down in a flash of red.

Elrond woke up, screaming.

His skin burned under the weight and heat of the blankets that suffocated him. He sat up, throwing them off, and gasped in the cold darkness. His forehead was slicked with sweat and his heart was racing.

Across the room, Elros sat up with a groan. "...Elrond?"

Elrond choked on a sob. The dream was still so vivid in his mind. He could still feel the heat of the flames around him, and hear the cracking fire. He could see Erestor falling into the black water. "Erestor..."

"What..." Elros began to ask, but Elrond was already out of bed and stumbling in his shaking body to cross the room to the door.

"I have to see Erestor," he told Elros. "I had a dream." His voice shook like his body.

In the torchlight of the corridor, Elrond ran. He stopped only at Erestor's door, and banged his fist on the wood. "Erestor! Erestor!" He needed to see him, and needed to see that he was safe. He needed someone to say it had only been a dream.

"ERESTOR!"

The door remained firmly closed. Elrond sank down beside it, shaking and weeping, slapping the palm of his hand against the flat wood. He heard another door, not far away, creak open.

"Elrond?"

Círdan, candle in hand, padded quietly down the corridor. "What happened?"

"I had... a dream..." Elrond gulped in breaths of air between his sobs, but it seemed hardly enough. "I need... I need Erestor..."

Círdan gave a soft knock on the door. "Erestor?" When there was no answer, he turned the knob and pushed it open.

Erestor's room was empty. His bed was still made; he had not been in it all night. "Strange..." said Círdan. "That's not like him..."

Ereinion, carrying another candle, hurried to join them. "What's wrong? Erestor?"

"Not here," Círdan told him. "His bed is empty. Did he say to you he was going somewhere?"

"No..." Ereinion shook his head vaguely, staring at Erestor's empty bed. A hardening shadow seemed to cross his face. "But I think I know where he is."

Elrond pulled himself up from the floor, still shaking, and followed Círdan and Ereinion. "Don't worry," Círdan told him with a pat to the shoulder. "We'll find Erestor; he can't be far. I'm sure he's only in the kitchen for a bit of bread, or out in the garden after too much wine. Glorfindel was still out in the garden, last I saw. He'll be fine." But Elrond had the familiar sinking, snaking feeling in his stomach, and he knew, no matter what Círdan said, that Erestor was not fine. What he saw in his dream had been more than the simple threats of a nightmare. Erestor was in danger somehow.

Ereinion did not turn down the way that went to the kitchen and the back garden. He continued on straight, to the darker end of the corridor. Elrond knew where they were going; he came this way with Erestor every day. At the end of the corridor, behind the locked door, was Mada's room. Ereinion took the door's key down from a peg on the way. But as he put it into the lock, even before he turned it, the door swung open easily.

Elrond was unable to see exactly what happened next. Círdan tugged at his arm, leading him back, saying, "I think we should return to bed, Elrond." But Elrond held his ground and stayed where he stood. Ereinion had gone into the room, and he could hear Maedhros shouting and swearing. Then, shuddering as if he had been dreading it, Erestor's voice. It was not Erestor as he usually was, rational Erestor, but a shrill, pleading Erestor. And it was a frightened, naked Erestor who was dragged out of the room by his hair and left to cower by the doorframe at the King's wrath. Elrond saw him, if only for a second, before Círdan stepped between them and held his arms before Elrond like a protective fence. And Elrond saw, partly, Maedhros swing his good arm and deliver a solid blow to the side of Ereinion's head.

"Círdan!" Ereinion cried. "Grab him!"

Círdan hesitated a moment, looking from vulnerable Elrond to raging Maedhros as if torn between protecting the one and subduing the other.

"Círdan!"

He answered Ereinion's call and grabbed one of Maedhros' arms. Ereinion, taking the other, managed to slam Maedhros against the wall and knock the wind out of him. Two against one, when the one was gasping to breathe, was an easier fight. They pulled him away and out of sight. Elrond did not know where they went.

On the floor, Erestor hugged his knees to his chest. His hair hid his face, but Elrond could hear; he was crying. It was a disgraceful sight. The wretch who sat now terrified and weeping on the floor did not deserve to be the same Erestor who had, only hours earlier, been so grand and regal. Elrond had been cheated. He wanted Erestor, the real Erestor, not this shadow of weakness.

After a long minute, he coldly asked, "Why were you in Mada's room?" though he knew exactly why. He wanted the shell of Erestor to lie and deny it.

"Go away, Elrond," Erestor answered in a breaking voice. "This doesn't concern you. Get out of here."

Elrond did not move.

"I said go away!" Erestor shouted.

"You will not speak to him," a voice behind Elrond said. It was Glorfindel's voice; Elrond recognised it instantly. The hand wrapping protectively around Elrond's shoulder was Glorfindel's hand.

"You are a traitor, Erestor, a conspirator and a liar. Were any King but Ereinion on the throne, I would advise you to flee for your life. You know your crimes. How dare you speak to Elrond now?"

"I've done no worse than you," Erestor sniffed.

"I at least stand by my allegiance," said Glorfindel. "May Manwë curse you." He spat at Erestor's feet. Then, nudging Elrond along, he said, "Círdan asked me to look after you. Come on."

They left Erestor by Maedhros' door.

~

The first pink tendrils of sunrise had started to touch the horizon when Glorfindel sat Elrond down at the breakfast table and gave him a cup of milk and a bread roll. Between sips and bites, Elrond told him everything about the dream. He still remembered the details perfectly. Glorfindel listened intently, frowning with concern.

"I think you should tell this dream to Círdan," Glorfindel said when Elrond's story was done.

"Why?"

Glorfindel sighed. "Elrond... have you ever thought about something or seen it in a dream before it really happened?"

"I don't know," said Elrond. "Sometimes. Maybe. I had a dream about Howler, didn't I? But sometimes I get these feelings, like I know something bad is going to happen. I just know. Then... it does."

"You should tell Círdan that, too."

"But why?" asked Elrond.

"Círdan has, for a long time, been renowned as a great seer," Glorfindel explained. "He has the power to know some things before they happen. He has revealing dreams, or sees visions in the air. It's a rare gift. Some have what you described- your 'sense' or 'feeling' of coming danger. But very few can see the future in dreams. Elven dreams almost always exist in the past. From what you said of your dream, the part about Erestor being in trouble... I think you might have some of this power. Círdan can help you realise it."

The idea that he could see the future made sense to Elrond. It felt no stranger than being told he had a nose. On some level, however hidden, he had known for a long time. He nodded in acceptance. "But then..." he said, "in my dream I saw Erestor fall out of a boat and let himself drown. Will that really happen?" 

"I don't know," said Glorfindel. "But I don't think so. Círdan always speaks of his dreams and visions as symbols. For example, he had a dream before the Havens of the Falas fell to Morgoth's army. He didn't dream of orcs destroying the city, as it really happened, but of a single orc defeating a single Elf in combat while a great wall of trees and vines crumbled to dust behind them. He correctly interpreted his dream to mean that the orcs were more powerful than his army, and that they would destroy everything that had been made. The cities were evacuated except for their soldiers. That's how we all came to Balar. A quarter-year later, the soldiers joined us here. They reported that, just as Círdan had said, Morgoth's army was too powerful to fight. They stood no chance. They fled to the safety of their ships as they saw the thousands of orcish banners coming over the hills. So you see, your dream about Erestor could mean any number of things, not necessarily that he will fall out of a boat and drown. You said he let himself fall from the boat. We might interpret that to mean he is letting himself be harmed, and that any danger that befalls him is a result of his own actions. Perhaps he was sitting in a lone boat because he will not let anyone help him. There can be many ways of looking at it."

"So..." Elrond said slowly, "if my dream means that Erestor is letting himself be harmed, will he be safe now that Ereinion found out about him and Maedhros?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "I don't know. It was your dream- what do you think?"

The snakey feeling was still in Elrond's stomach. "No," he said sadly. "I think he's still in danger."

"You will have to tell Círdan that, too."

Elrond nodded and put his head down on the table. He was so tired, torn between desires to help the old, strong Erestor and turn his back on the weak Erestor he had seen in the corridor.

"I think it's time to go back to bed," Glorfindel said softly. "You've had a rough night, and I've not been to sleep at all yet."

Elrond let Glorfindel pick him up out of his chair, and he wrapped his arms around Glorfindel's neck. "Can I sleep with you?"

"Of course," said Glorfindel. "But only on the condition that you show me to a spare bed. Ereinion wasn't kind enough to allot me one last night."

"The room next to me and Elros is empty. It has no glass in the windows, though. Círdan's waiting until summer to get glass, then he says it'll be my room so I don't have to share with Elros any more." He paused to reach back and open the kitchen door for Glorfindel, whose arms were full. Then he continued, "Glorfindel... the other part of my dream... when I was in that burning room with Elros and Maedhros came... could that be something from the future?"

"Mmn," Glorfindel said, shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"Then what?"

"It was just a dream, Elrond," Glorfindel said quickly. "That's all."

Elrond sighed. It had felt like much more than a dream. "Glorfindel?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Remember when you said a long time ago that Erestor was in love with Fëanor? Do you think he's in love with Maedhros now?"

"No," said Glorfindel. "I think he's infatuated with Maedhros, and finds a secret thrill in being with him, but I don't think it's love, no."

"Oh," said Elrond. "Good."

Glorfindel tapped his foot against the door next to Elrond's bedroom. "This one?"

"Yes." Elrond opened the door, and Glorfindel carried him inside to set him down on the bed.

Carefully, Glorfindel undressed, until he was wearing only the gold bangles on his wrists and a pair of loose breeches that came to his knees. Sometime over the night he had acquired several ribbons in his hair, and he pulled them out now to lay them aside with his clothes. He used his fingers to wipe away smudges of black from around his eyes. The red on his lips had long since disappeared, and the white on his face remained only in a few streaks. Watching, Elrond began to undress himself, only stopping when he realised he was already wearing his night clothes.

Glorfindel climbed into bed with a groan. He lay as if exhausted, his golden body stretched out atop the white covers, then rolled onto his back. Elrond, lying down to join him, noticed for the first time the top half of a curving, red scar peeking up from the high waistband of his breeches. He almost questioned it, but thought better, and said instead, "Good night, Glorfindel," even though the morning sun had already come up to shine clearly through the glassless windows.

"Good night, Elrond," Glorfindel murmured.

It was a long time before Elrond could fall asleep, and in that time he lay where he was, staring at Glorfindel's sleeping face. He thought to himself that if there were a perfect being in the world, surely Glorfindel was it, strange scar or no.


	4. The Malachite Leaf, and Other Subtleties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Near the end of the First Age, Maedhros and Maglor are driven out of Beleriand and end up in the only remaining safe haven: the Isle of Balar. They bring with them the eight-year-old sons of Erendil. Implied slash and AU aspects.

Elrond could not be sure if it had been a dream or something he had watched, half awake. While Glorfindel lay still sleeping beside him, he blinked and saw Maedhros and Erestor standing over the bed. Maedhros held a knife in his hand. Erestor was pleading with him. Elrond could not hear the words.

He tried to shout, but like in so many nightmares, he had no voice. His body was frozen in place. Maedhros raised his knife. Erestor's hand flew to Maedhros' wrist, begging him to stop, but he shoved Erestor roughly aside. Then he turned to look down at Elrond. For a brief moment, their eyes locked.

"Mada," Elrond tried to say. His mouth moved, but no sound came.

Maedhros nodded to Elrond, as if merely acknowledging his presence, then shifted his gaze to Glorfindel. He flexed the wrist that held the knife.

If it was not a dream, and Elrond really did see what he vaguely remembered seeing, then a knock at the door might have saved Glorfindel's life. Maedhros turned toward the sound, and Erestor, fearfully clasping his sleeve, pulled him toward the glassless window. "We'll be caught!" were the only words Elrond remembered hearing.

At a second knocking, Elrond found himself suddenly very much awake and sitting up in bed. Erestor and Maedhros were nowhere to be seen. He glanced around fearfully, even ducking to check under the bed, but they had disappeared. It might have been a dream, after all.

As Elrond looked, Glorfindel lifted his head from the pillow with some effort. "Who's there?" he called.

"Círdan," said a muffled voice. The door swung open, and through it came Círdan, as promised. He wore the look of a man both rushed and worried. "Elros thought you were in this room."

Glorfindel yawned. "Needed a bit of rest. Is it dinner time yet?"

"Maedhros is gone," said Círdan.

The effect of that statement on Glorfindel was like a bucket of cold water. He sat upright, staring in shock, and shouted at Círdan, "What?!"

"Ereinion took him to the guard house early this morning. When he went again to take some food, just now, he found the cell open and Maedhros gone. Maglor is also gone from his room, and we can't find Erestor anywhere. It looks as if he was the one to help them escape."

~ 

Erestor was gone, and Maedhros and Maglor with him. Their flight was confirmed by a fisherman, who had gone down to his dock in the dead of night to investigate the strange sound that had woken him. What he saw was an empty space where his skiff should have been. Out on the water, barely visible by starlight, three figures in the stolen boat bobbed on the waves. They were a half-mile from shore already. The fisherman, too upset over the missing skiff to take time to consider who might have stolen it, waited until morning to make a report to the sheriff. The sheriff sent him to make a report to the King.

The King thanked him for his vigilance, told him he had done a great service by informing on the whereabouts of escaped criminals, and promised him a reward sufficient to purchase a new skiff plus something extra for his trouble. Three days later, once he was certain that the three sighted in the boat had indeed been Maedhros, Maglor, and Erestor, Ereinion announced to his citizens that the villains at large had left the island. No-one had been harmed, and lives were no longer in danger. Children could play outdoors again. Good people could walk the streets alone. Glorfindel could come out of his hiding place in the cramped storage area above Círdan's room. Elrond was disappointed; he liked setting up fort with Glorfindel under the beams made of splintery brown wood and the roof tiles of white clay. He liked sharing bits of food from bowls placed on a blanket on the floor. That was how people ate in Valmar, Glorfindel told him.

Elrond said nothing about his watching-waking dream of Maedhros and Erestor. No-one would have believed him if he did. According to the fisherman, Maedhros' whereabouts could be accounted for all day. First, the fisherman had only seen three figures in a boat. Then he claimed to have thrown a rock and hit one of them in the head. But now his story was that Maedhros had held him captive in the fish house for the whole day, tied to the cleaning table, and had threatened to gut him like a fish. It only made sense that if Maedhros had been in the fish house, he could not have been in the bedroom with a knife. Elrond must have dreamed it. He had all kinds of strange dreams now: some bad, and some good.

The last night in the hiding place, he dreamed that he was the most beautiful and beloved Elf in the entire world. He was older in the dream, and wearing a magnificent outfit that looked rather like Glorfindel's party suit. Glorfindel was with him. They walked down the carpeted corridor of a grand palace, a palace like Elrond imagined must have existed in the great realms of Ereinion's green book, and courtiers bowed as they passed. Ereinion stood waiting at the end of the corridor, beside a door that led to the dining hall. He handed Elrond a bowl full of candies, grapes, and pearls. A six-pudding banquet in Elrond's honour followed the presentation of the gift, and then all the guests stripped off their fine clothes and went swimming in an enormous fountain with foaming lilac water. Elrond woke up smiling. It had been his best dream in a long while.

The sound of rain pattered on the roof tiles. The air was cold; Elrond could see his breath. He rolled over on his floor mat to look at Glorfindel, who was still sleeping soundly next to the chimney. Quickly, he wrapped his blanket around his shoulder and crawled across the floor to where Glorfindel lay. It was warmer to curl up next to somebody than to lie alone.

"Hú... vanim..." Glorfindel mumbled in his sleep.

Elrond poked him on the shoulder. "Glorfindel? Are you having a dream?"

Glorfindel blinked and yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "Mmm... yes," he said.

"What kind of dream?" Elrond asked.

"A good one."

Elrond smiled. "I had a good dream, too. What was yours about?"

"Ah," said Glorfindel, and he yawned again. "Nothing you need to know... Why don't you tell me of your dream instead?"

Grinning, Elrond sat back to share his perfect vision. "I was the best person in the world," he said. "You were walking with me in a huge palace, and Ereinion gave me a present, and then we went swimming in a fountain."

"That sounds very nice, Elrond."

"Do you think it might come true?" he asked.

"What?"  


"You and Círdan both said I have a power to see the future in my dreams. Do you think this one was a dream about the future?"

"I don't know," said Glorfindel. "These things are impossible to say. It could mean that you'll grow up to be admired and respected by many. Or it could be just a dream."

"Oh," said Elrond. It had seemed so real, and so natural, as if only waiting for the right moment to happen in truth. "What about the swimming?" he asked.

Glorfindel put on a thoughtful face and pretended to consider this carefully. "Well. I'm not sure about the fountain part, but I think the regular kind of swimming in the sea could be arranged for today."

"Now?" asked Elrond.

Glorfindel looked at the roof. "When it stops raining and the sun comes out," he said.

~ 

By the time the sun came out in late afternoon, the air was warm and Glorfindel, as promised, finally left his hiding place to take Elrond, Elros and Howler to the beach for swimming. Ereinion and Círdan followed. Ereinion's face was set with a perpetual scowl, full of anger toward Glorfindel still left over from the party night, prompting Glorfindel to wisely ensure that Círdan was standing between the two of them at all times. Wisely too, he ignored Ereinion's subtle but constant stream of barbed comments. Mostly.

Elros was first to undress, tossing his clothes into a careless heap on the sand and running after Howler through the curling edges of the waves. Elrond likewise removed his clothes, but stayed on the beach to wait for Glorfindel. Glorfindel stripped down only to the high-waisted, knee-length breeches he had been wearing the past few days.

"Are you going swimming with your clothes on?" Ereinion asked.

"I prefer staying covered, thank you," was Glorfindel's curt answer.

Ereinion snorted. "Ha! Strange that of all of us, the whore's the only one who won't drop his pants!"

Even from where he stood a few yards away, Elrond could see Glorfindel's jaw clench and his shoulders tighten.

"Ereinion," Glorfindel said. "This is the sixth time so far today that you've called me a whore. Your vocabulary seems somewhat limited."

"I was always taught to call things by their proper names," Ereinion replied.

Glorfindel's voice snapped back like the bite of a whip. "Then you ought call me _Cantarwa_ , or did your selfish father not teach you proper respect for your elders?!"

There was a brief pause, a fraction of a second in which Ereinion had time enough to shift from shock at Glorfindel finally breaking to defend himself and the fury of being insulted. But before he had time to fully react, his opponent seemed to have reconsidered and changed tactics. Glorfindel spoke again, in a sweeter voice accented with a mischievous smile. "Besides," he added, "it's been fair years since I was last sold as a whore."

Of all the things Ereinion might have been expecting Glorfindel to say, this was not one. He let his mouth drop open, gaping like a halfwit, until he had enough presence of mind to stupidly mumble, "What?"

Glorfindel's smile widened. "Have I never told you this story?" he asked, almost mockingly. "Oh, it's a grand one. You should hear it."

He stepped closer to Ereinion in a move that bordered on a threat. Elrond, too, inched his way forward. He was clever enough to guess that whatever was about to be said would be something that should not be heard by children. He prodded a smooth stone with his toe, making certain he looked safely indifferent while his ears strained to hear Glorfindel's words.

"This happened after your father died," Glorfindel began. "After that battle, everyone left Eithel Sirion and followed your uncle to Gondolin. My friend and I - his name was Amaril, or perhaps it should be Emeril in Sindarin; I'm not sure - were the last to leave. Everyone else fled in a hurry to travel under the protection of Turgon's soldiers. But we stayed a few days, and were able to load up a cart with all the abandoned treasures we could carry. And we could carry quite a lot.

"Of course there was no point in us going to Gondolin, as your uncle made it very clear that I was unwelcome in his good city, so we decided to set off south-west to find you in Eglarest instead. I think we must have had some noble intention in mind, such as delivering you your father's old prince's circlet. Which we did; do you remember?"

Ereinion made a grunting sound, which may have indicated a memory along those lines. Glorfindel continued, regardless. "The entire north, and particularly the north-west, was a hazard in those days. Chaos. Elven power and influence was almost gone. Bands of ignoble mortals were everywhere, so we considered ourselves very lucky to have not encountered any even as we came as far as the Narog. The two of us, all alone with our wagon of treasures, would have made a legendary target. But we had already reached the Nenning and turned south before we saw another living person.

"...Now I should mention before I say anything else that, early on in the journey, I'd started wearing my full court costume every day. If I wore plain travelling clothes, Amaril made me walk along with him, water the horses, cut a path through the tall grasses, gather firewood for camp, you get the idea. But if I took the time to fix my hair and face in the morning and clothe myself in palace silks, then he was far too chivalrous to let one who looked so queenly do anything but sit on the wagon seat and drink brandy all day. So I got away with looking pretty while drinking myself stupid, and he did all the work. It was a good arrangement.

"Back to the Nenning. Early afternoon on the same day we had turned south, we were surrounded by bandits coming up suddenly out of grass as high as Amaril's chest. Not too many, maybe only eight, but they were armed and we had no chance of fighting off all of them. We knew it was better to try and bargain our way out. They wanted gold and gems, of course, but also clothing. The bandit chiefs liked to compare themselves to Elven kings, and they liked to dress the part. I remember the leader of this group was wearing a too-small tunic of Elven design and some kind of Doriathren banner as a cape.

"Amaril let them look at our wagon, treating them like peaceful traders while they held him at knifepoint. They spoke in some strange ugly noises, and didn't understand a word we said, but the leader's pointing and grunting was clear enough. Amaril told him, 'Yes, yes, you can have that, and that too, and all of those, yes.' It was easy for him- those weren't his clothes and jewels the bandits wanted. But I'd been drinking brandy all morning and wasn't about to let some dirty thieves take everything I'd struggled to save from Eithel Sirion. Luckily, they thought my protests were endearing.

"The leader in the Doriathren banner cape turned to Amaril and made a gesture that said no, he wanted none of our treasures from the wagon. His band would leave all that untouched. If- and he made a new gesture- Amaril let them have me. I was all he wanted."

Elrond had stopped moving and stopped pretending to be disinterested, as he stared at Glorfindel openly, and hung on every word of this strange tale. He had an idea of where the story was going, shocking as it was. Was such a thing even possible, and, more importantly, had Glorfindel done it?

The story went on. "Amaril had no idea what to say to this. He'd convinced himself that if we gave them enough valuables, they'd let us go on our way without trouble. So the chief's gestures grew more and more emphatic, and all he could do was stand there with his wide eyes and open mouth. I was annoyed, and drunk- which is a bad combination, by the way- so I said, 'Oh, how bad could it be?' and hopped down off the wagon. I figured I'd entertain them a while, an hour or two, then Amaril and I could continue our journey without losing the clothes and jewels. I told him to take the wagon and go on without me; I'd catch him later. I think he was too shocked to argue.

"So Amaril went along south, and I went a short ways east with the bandits back to their village, which was little more than a camp. They were so kind to me the whole way. The chief kept smiling and patting my arm and saying soft things that I think were meant to be compliments, and as we walked he offered me a skin of some very strong wine. So they weren't bad people at all, really. We went into the big village hall, which was a long log-framed building with animal skin walls, decorated with stolen Elvish treasures. Candlesticks, tapestries, a plush footstool, a carpet rolled up to use as a bench... I guessed at least two thirds of everything they owned and wore had once belonged to somebody else. The chief introduced me to his son- at least I gathered this was his son- who was wearing the outer part of a lady's winter travelling gown, backwards, over a silk nightshirt and smith's leather breeches. He took one look at me and stepped behind his father to hide.

"The father and son spoke to each other a moment. I had a chance to look around the hall, and curious observers that kept popping out between the hanging skins or leaning blatantly through the door had a chance to look at me. Most of them looked like the same sort of people as the bandit Men: short and stout, with coarse, dark hair and small, dark eyes set deep into round faces. Only a few, six or seven women that I could see, were clearly of a different kind. They were taller, and slender, with light brown or golden hair and pale eyes. They stared at me blankly, and it made me uneasy. I looked back to the chief. He was saying something to his son in a harsh voice, waving his hand at me, while his son shook his head, 'no, no'.

"This was when I started to think that maybe I wasn't brought here for any short stay. Those pale women must have come from someplace else; they might have been travellers as well, kept like any other stolen goods from ambushed caravans. I believed then that the chief meant for me to _marry_ his son, not just spend an hour with him. And that, I would not do. Could not do. They hadn't yet realised that I wasn't a woman, looking as I did, and when they found out, I knew well enough that it would be... ah... ill-received. So I thought it would be a good time to take my clothes off."

"Why?!" Elrond shouted. It had not been his intention to say this, or anything at all, but his mouth was already forming the word before his mind had a chance to second-guess. His cheeks turned red immediately. "I mean..." he added, "if you're worried they'll see you're a... not... Why would you take your clothes off so they can see right away?"

Glorfindel smiled at him, a sly kind of smile, and answered, "Because, Elrond, it's far easier to run when you're not wearing enough fabric to make a tent. And yes, I did run. I pulled off my court clothes and, after pausing just long enough for the look on the chief's face to turn from confusion to fury, ran like I never had before and never have since. Some of the bandits chased me a while, but their legs were on the short side and they couldn't match my speed. But at least I left them with that one fine outfit. It probably ended up on the chief, who would be too fat to wear it fastened, though I doubt he'd mind. Whatever the case, I caught Amaril the next afternoon. We continued, and found our way to Eglarest with no further incident." He turned to Ereinion with the flash of a menacingly bright grin. "Then I gave you your circlet."

"Then you gave me my circlet," Ereinion agreed. His words were sharply edged with a growl.

"Aren't you glad that I went to such lengths to keep it safe for you?" Glorfindel asked.

"I'm amazed you went to such lengths to invent that ludicrous story," Ereinion answered. "I think you're just trying to shock me."

Glorfindel laughed. "Everything shocks you, Ereinion. You're so closed-minded. I remember you actually cried when you found out your father and Maedhros had been lovers. And that was when you were sixty-five."

The words that Ereinion angrily shouted back might as well have been whispered for all Elrond heard. This news of Maedhros was enough to inspire the worst kind of curiosity. He stepped forward far enough to grasp Glorfindel's arm and ask, "What? What about Maedhros?"

"Oh," said Glorfindel, "it's nothing young boys need to know about."

"But-" Elrond started, though he gave up his protest as quickly as it came. The closing moment, the moment when the grownups realised he was listening and paying attention to things he should not hear, had come. It was always impossible to go back once the curtain had fallen.

Glorfindel took his hand. "Come on. I'm not in the mood for swimming any more. Why don't we go to my house and find some fresh clothes? I've been wearing the same thing for four days."

Elrond went. Being with Glorfindel was always better than not being with Glorfindel, even if being with Glorfindel meant no swimming.

~ 

Glorfindel let Elrond choose the new clothes. Now that Elrond knew Glorfindel owned a large collection of beautiful things, the task was a great pleasure. It took an hour just to unpack it all from trunks that had been locked for sixty years. The floor was covered in silks when Glorfindel said, suddenly and unexpectedly, "Ereinion's coming."

Following his gaze, Elrond looked out the window to see Ereinion, alone, coming up the road. "What does he want?" 

"I don't know," said Glorfindel. "But he's never come here before. Elrond... go into the bedroom and hide behind the curtain. Whatever he's come here to say, I want him to say it without knowing you're still here. He'll tether his wrath if he knows you're listening."

Elrond obeyed the request gladly. He slipped behind Glorfindel's curtain, keeping even his shoes hidden, and allowed himself only a thin sliver of an opening through which to spy. Whatever truth and fury was about to be spoken, he would hear in full.

It seemed a terribly long time before Ereinion came to the door. At a harsh knocking, Glorfindel let him inside. Elrond heard him say, "What are you doing? What's all this?"

"Clothes," said Glorfindel. "My old clothes, just unpacked. I was choosing what to wear."

"Where's Elrond?"

Glorfindel did not answer. "What brings you here?" he asked instead.

There was a pause, and Elrond watched Ereinion fidget with a clasp on his shirt in the shy moment it took him to resolve what he was about to say. "Everything that belonged to my father... or my family at all... I want it. Everything that's rightfully mine, I want. Everything you took from Eithel Sirion in that wagon of yours. I want every carpet and tapestry and dish and jewel and fur, down to the last coin. I am the only living heir, and it belongs to me."

Glorfindel laughed. "That's a bit much, coming to my house and demanding I give you everything you've not thought of since you were ten years old."

"I want what is mine. And that includes everything you have here."

"No," said Glorfindel. "That includes a small portion of what I have here. What you see- these clothes- this is all mine. The tapestries and dishes and furs, as you say, I lost years ago, or Amaril took. I had to abandon some things in Eglarest, and others were destroyed at the Havens of Sirion. I have your father's wedding suit, which I will give you, and a few of his rings. But I have to tell you, Ereinion, that he was never one with much interest in personal wealth. Even less so toward the end of his life. He wore simple clothes, few jewels if any, and decorated his bedroom with books rather than ornate furnishings. His armour was the most valuable thing he owned, and it was destroyed at his death. So whatever notions you have of kingly riches owed you, you should forget now. Everything I have that might be rightly yours can fit into a small rutabaga sack. In fact I'll put it into one, if you want. But what you see here is mine."

"It belongs to my family," Ereinion said coldly.

"Look, this is nonsense. I was not some low stable boy in Eithel Sirion. I had the means to purchase my own things, you know."

"You were my father's bondsman, and as such-"

Even through the curtain-gap, Elrond could see the exaggerated gesture of Glorfindel rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "Yes, yes," said Glorfindel, "I know what you're about to say. That such a bondsman is unable to express ownership, either of land or goods, and all property truly belongs to his lord, and so on. But, you know, your father did not acknowledge oaths or bonds. So my duty is nullified."

"I AM NOT AS STUPID AS YOU THINK!" Ereinion shouted, with force enough to cause both Glorfindel and Elrond to step back in alarm. "I know he did not recognise sworn oaths! And I know he granted you titles and property! But I also know that you never swore your oath of servitude to him, but rather to my grandfather! And what you may not know is that, at my birth, my grandfather named me his heir in place of all others! He knew my father did not want to be king! The crown only passed to him as regent because I, at ten years old, was far too young to take that burden! He knew that in the event that my father was named king, all the riches and power of the kingdom would somehow find their way funnelled through him into your conniving hands! He refused to allow it. So he appointed me as his successor, and I inherited everything he owned. Including... his servants. You were bonded to my grandfather, and therefore, at his death, to me. And I have come to claim everything that is mine."

Glorfindel muttered something that was too soft for Elrond to hear, and he stepped back, retreating into the kitchen alcove. Ereinion followed him. Both moved behind the wall, out of Elrond's sight line. Elrond could no longer watch them without emerging from behind the curtain. He could only hear half of what was quietly spoken.

Ereinion's voice said, "...entirely within my right... only way... hardly a chore..."

Glorfindel's voice said in return, "... never have the courage... prove nothing at all..."

"...think you are only playing the role of palace courtesan..." said Ereinion.

"Consort," replied Glorfindel. "...always preferred _consort_... more appropriate..."

Ereinion laughed loudly and mockingly, which covered Glorfindel's next words. Then, suddenly, he shouted, "SIT DOWN!" Chair legs scraped against the wooden floor; Glorfindel must have obeyed the order. Elrond could stand no more. Carefully, he pushed the curtain aside and crept to the edge of the wall to peer into the kitchen.

Glorfindel was indeed sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. His eyes were closed, and Ereinion's hand was at his neck. Ereinion, who stood closely over him, spoke in fierce, low tones.

"Tell me why I should not," Ereinion said, and his hand began to slowly move down Glorfindel's bare chest. "I can do whatever I like with you, if you belong to me. You know the rumour going about, before you came to live on this farm out here, was that you would do anything for the right price? It inspired wild fantasies among some. Anything at all... for a price... So how is this. I will let you keep up your mask of wealth. My father's things I will take, and the jewellery, and everything else I will examine to decide what you may have. Most of your court clothing, you may keep. In return for this kindness, you will come back to live with me in the town. Is that a suitable price for you?"

Eyes still closed, Glorfindel bowed his head and gave the slightest nod.

"I thought it might be," said Ereinion. "So cheaply bought." He bent in lower to press his lips to Glorfindel's cheek, though Glorfindel turned sharply away from the kiss. In an instant, his hand was back at neck level, poised to choke. "Don't you dare turn from me," he hissed.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Glorfindel murmured.

"Why not?"

Glorfindel opened his eyes. "Because Elrond is standing behind you, and this is not something he should see."

If Elrond had been Morgoth himself, Ereinion could not have had a more horrified look on his face as he whirled around. He stepped back, distancing himself from Glorfindel as best he could in the small room, and as he did he folded his arms protectively across his chest to hide his hands in shame. "El... Elrond..." he stammered. His guilty breath came so erratically he looked like he might choke on it. And Elrond wished he would.

"How... long have you been there?"

"Since before you arrived," said Glorfindel, as he stood and grabbed the nearest robe off the table to cover the nakedness of his upper body. "He was behind the curtain, in my bedroom. I'm sure he heard everything you said. Isn't that lovely?"

Elrond nodded, slowly. He kept his eyes fixed on Ereinion. Half of him wanted to flee the wicked scene, and the other half wanted to attack the King with all the strength he could muster. Indecisive as he was, he could only manage to stand and stare.

Ereinion looked from Elrond to Glorfindel, who had his back turned, and then again to Elrond. "Oh," he said, limply. For a second, he seemed to deflate and shrink, as if all the strength in his body scattered grain by grain like sand on the breeze. It took him a moment to gather it all again. Then he hardened his eyes. "I meant what I said. All of this... everything... It's mine, and I want it."

"Then take it," said Glorfindel. "Please, go ahead. I shan't stop you. Take whatever you want. Except you should know that I promised Elrond a present for helping me sort through this mess, and I don't think you should take away his reward on account of your grudge toward me."

"What present?" Ereinion asked. He looked to Elrond

This was the first Elrond had heard of any present or reward. He had been helping for the honour and joy of just seeing all those wonderful clothes. But out of support for Glorfindel, he tried his best to look as if he knew what was happening. He raised his chin to Ereinion in defiance.

"I promised Elrond that, in thanks for his work, I would let him pick a few things he liked best to keep for himself," Glorfindel said. "All I ask now is that you let him do his choosing before you take it all away. You wouldn't want me to break my promise, would you?"

"Um," said Ereinion, but before he could speak further, Glorfindel interrupted.

"Come on, Elrond. This is as sorted as we're going to get today, so go ahead and pick two presents. Any two things in the room. They're yours to keep. You were looking at that velvet cape, weren't you? And the pendants?"

Slowly, Elrond walked to the centre of the room, and looked around at everything draped over the floor and furniture. There seemed to be so much more of it, so many perfect items, now that he was forced to pick just two. He needed more time. Had he known this would happen, he would have been considering carefully all the while they unpacked. Even that, he thought, would not have been enough. So how could he possibly make a choice in only seconds? He glanced at the jewellery boxes, which he knew contained some of the finest pendants and rings he had ever seen. Ereinion flinched. _Don't worry_ , he thought to himself, _I don't want your stupid jewels._

He looked at the velvet cape, deep green and trimmed with black, and moved on. It was too large; it would fall floor-length on Glorfindel. If he had to pick something now, he wanted it to be something he could use now. He was sure he wanted fine clothes like Glorfindel wore to the party, but he wanted them to fit. He needed something smaller. Across the room, thrown over a storage box, he remembered seeing a pair of black breeches with delicate silver embroidery in a diamond pattern down the side seams. They were cut shorter than usual, and when he held them up against his body, they came to just above his ankles. The waist was drawstring, which meant he could pull it tight enough to fit.

A pair of pale brown slippers, decorated with sparkling beads, sat on the floor beside him. He slipped them on. They were too big by far, sticking out two inches behind his heel, but at least they were the backless kind he could wear around the house without looking too ridiculous. He could stuff the toe with rags, or perhaps tie them on with ribbons. He took them off, picked them up, and turned back to Glorfindel and Ereinion with his choices.

Glorfindel started laughing immediately. "You see, Ereinion!" he said. "You looked so worried for a minute there, afraid he would choose something far too valuable, but what does he pick? A pair of your father's underpants and my old shoes! Good boy, isn't he?"

Ereinion forced a weak smile of relief. "Very..."

"Come over here, Elrond." Glorfindel held out his arm in a welcoming gesture, and Elrond came to him. "You deserve something more than second-hand underpants and shoes. Here, you'll like this..." He reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a shining golden disc, the size of his palm. On one side, it was inlaid with tiny pieces of blue glass in a chequered pattern. The other side was a mirror framed in more of the same. "It's not very valuable- the metal is only an alloy made to look like gold, and it's adorned with glass instead of gems, but I thought it was pretty. It reminded me of the central market in Valmar. Craftsmen there make one grand piece to sell to some lord, and then dozens of cheap imitations of copper and glass to sell to everyone else who wants to play at being rich. It does look a bit Vanyarin, doesn't it, with that design on the back, though I bought it in Mithrim. Anyhow. You should have it." He put the mirror disc into Elrond's hand.

"Thank you..." said Elrond. Quickly, he ran his thumb over the ridges of glass, and then dropped it safely into his pocket before Ereinion could say anything to take it away. The next thing he knew, his arms had found their way around Glorfindel's waist. Glorfindel held him tightly in return.

"Wonderful," said Ereinion. "Now that you have your presents, Elrond, you can help me collect my things."

"Will I get another present?"

Ereinion smiled too brightly, and took no notice of Elrond's scowl. "Of course."

"Then no," said Elrond. "I don't want anything from you." He turned to press his eyes against Glorfindel's arm, ignoring the hurt look on Ereinion's face.

"You should help him," Glorfindel whispered close to his ear. "I'll help, too. We'll pack up everything he says, and take it into town."

It seemed cowardly to Elrond to give in so easily and hand everything over at Ereinion's demand. He would rather fight. But if Glorfindel could bear it, then he could as well. He nodded in agreement, but did not yet release his embrace.

"What would you have us pack first, my dear King?" Glorfindel asked.

Ereinion surveyed the landscape of disorganisation. "My father's wedding clothes," he said. "You said you had those... I want them."

"Well yes," said Glorfindel. "I'd already guessed that. Anything else less obvious?"

"Everything that ever belonged to my family!" Ereinion shouted back. "Varda, Glorfindel, do I have to list each individual item?"

Glorfindel sneered. "Yes."

"Fine. Fine. I will." Rubbing his forehead with both hands, as if the gesture might summon some old memory of family treasures, Ereinion began to pace. "The leaf pendant," he finally said. "The malachite leaf."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The malachite leaf pendant," Ereinion said loudly, "which was given to my father by Lúthien as a token of esteem on behalf of the kingdom of Doriath, which I believe you once tried to steal from him out of ridiculous infatuation with the princess, and which I might very soon decide is worth your thumbs if you do not hand it over immediately."

"Oh right," said Glorfindel. "That malachite leaf. Elrond, see if you can find it, will you?"

Elrond opened the nearest jewellery box. "What does it look like?"

"Well, it's made of malachite, and it's shaped like a leaf," Glorfindel told him. And then, a moment later, added, "It's green and silver. About as long as your little finger."

As Elrond searched for the leaf, Ereinion continued his list. "My mother's wedding ring. My father kept that in a separate box, apart from his own rings, which I also want, but I want her wedding ring in particular."

"Your mother had no wedding ring," Glorfindel answered, shaking his head.

"I've seen it," said Ereinion. "My father showed me. It was gold-"

"Ereinion, I was at the ceremony. There were no rings for either your father or your mother. Believe me, I remember this. It caused a sensation to break from tradition like that, and your grandfather complained mightily, but they had no rings."

"It was gold," Ereinion repeated, more forcefully. "A wide band, which she kept on a chain because it had originally been made as a man's ring, and she died before she had a chance to have it resized. It had no stones, but the gold had been worked in four tiny and perfectly detailed scenes... scenes of..."

His voice trailed off as Glorfindel abruptly turned and left the room.

"Glorfindel?"

Elrond looked up. Glorfindel had gone into the bedroom, and from the sounds of his movements, he was searching for something. It took him only a moment to find it. He returned, clutching a ring on a chain in his right hand, and thrust it in front of Ereinion's face.

"This ring?!" he hissed.

"Yes... that's it. Thank you."

Before Ereinion could take the ring, Glorfindel snatched it back, covering it with both hands. "Of all the arrogant lies!" he spat. "This is not your mother's wedding ring, contrary to your father's vile dishonesty! What he said and why he said it, I can't even begin to guess, but this is not yours! It is _my_ mother's wedding ring. She swore no oath to your grandfather, she is not your slave, and you have no right to it. The ring stays with me!"

"But..." Ereinion sighed, confused. "I remember him showing me... twice... he told me..."

"I don't care what he told you!" shouted Glorfindel. "Perhaps you're misremembering? Perhaps he once showed you _my_ mother's ring? Or perhaps he was so ashamed of his fallacy of a marriage that he invented a story around a ring for your mother so he'd have something more romantic to tell you than, 'I had to marry my cousin because I could do no better'!"

It took Ereinion's fist only a fraction of a second to collide with Glorfindel's jaw, and hardly any longer for Glorfindel to fall to the floor, landing on his back beside a pile of crumpled shirts. The blood began to flow immediately from the side of his lip. In the stillness of the silent seconds that followed, Glorfindel looked too shocked to speak or even move. Blood trickled down his chin to drip onto his bare chest where his robe had fallen open, and he seemed not to notice. Ereinion's face, surprised at first by what his fist had impulsively done, quickly settled back into a scowl of anger. Elrond watched them both carefully, almost forgetting even to breathe.

"I want those bracelets you're wearing," said Ereinion. His voice was quieter than before, and it carried a cold sting. "Those are good quality gold, and likely worth more than half the rest of this room combined. My father gave them to you. Now I want them."

Finally, Glorfindel lifted a hand to wipe the blood from his face. He stared up at Ereinion, eyes narrow and fierce, and said, "No."

"You're not in a position to say no. Take them off, and give them to me."

"No," Glorfindel repeated. Then, "I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?" asked Ereinion. "They're not fixed on; you've not been wearing them for the past sixty years. You took them off before, and you can take them off now."

Glorfindel glared. "I can't. I am unable, Ereinion, to take these bracelets off. Are you too thick to understand that?"

"Are you too thick to understand that if you don't take them off, I'll take them off of you, and I surely won't be as gentle as you might like?!"

"I can't," Glorfindel repeated simply.

Ereinion paced. He rubbed his hand, as if only then realising how it stung from the impact with Glorfindel's jaw, and how the skin on his knuckle had split. "Why not?" he asked. "Why can't you? If I'm as thick as you say, then please, explain to me exactly why you are incapable of a task so simple as removing bangles from your wrists."

"For religious reasons, I am unable to remove these bracelets. I cannot take them off, and I will not."

"Oh for..." Ereinion muttered, and Elrond was certain he heard the King swear.

"You can complain all you like, but it won't help."

"Take them off," said Ereinion.

"No."

"Glorfindel... take them off, now. You're being stupid."

"My religious laws are hardly stupid!" Glorfindel hissed.

"TAKE THEM OFF!" From the table at his side, Ereinion grabbed a long-bladed cooking knife, holding it between him and Glorfindel at a dangerous angle as his eyes burned and his breath came at an angry speed. "Take them off, Glorfindel, or I swear I will cut them off!"

"Yes," Glorfindel said softly, "free me from my shackles like your father freed Maedhros. How appropriate."

These words nearly caused Ereinion to drop his knife. His hand slipped as the threat echoed back to him and he realised what he had said. Some of the colour drained from his face. "I didn't mean..." he choked; "I didn't... I meant... the gold, the metal, not..." He set the knife back onto the table, not even looking at it, as if its mere potential had suddenly made him ill.

"I don't care what you meant," said Glorfindel. "Any words you say will do an injustice to your ignorance. Ereinion, do you know why I wear these bracelets?"

Ereinion silently shook his head, and Glorfindel lifted his hands to display them. "I told you it was a religious law," he continued, "and by that law, one is forbidden from showing injuries, scars, or other flaws." Slowly, he unfastened the left bracelet, then the right, and slipped them off.

Elrond gasped at what he saw. His hand flew to his mouth, and he bit down hard on the side of his finger to keep from making a sound. The skin at Glorfindel's wrists was ruined. It was twisted somehow, as if it had been pulled apart. Dark ridges separated sunken creases of pure white. Permanent marks had been notched into the joint at the base of his hand, below his thumb. He turned his arms, back to front, so all could be seen.

"What..." Ereinion forced out in a whisper, though his hand, like Elrond's covered his mouth.

"CHAINS, EREINION!" Glorfindel screamed at him, sitting up suddenly and furiously, like a snake about to strike. "I was held in chains by your grandfather's gaolers, and here is your proof! Iron leaves scars! Your father freed me, and I thank Manwë that he was neither a stupid nor entirely insensitive man. He saw how destroyed I was at the sight of my torn and bloodied skin. He had those bracelets made to cover my wrists, so that I need never show my scars. But take them!" He picked up the bracelets, hurling them at Ereinion with all the force he had. One struck the King's shoulder and the other his chest, before both fell to the floor in a clatter of metal. "Take them, if they are so precious!" he shouted. "Though I can promise they will mean nothing to you compared with how dear they are to me..." Then he fell back to the floor, no longer harsh and defiant, but broken and sad. His hands covered his face to wipe away tears already slipping from tightly closed eyes.

Elrond could not move. Like in his waking-sleeping dream, his body was frozen. For a terrible, stretched moment, the room was still save for Glorfindel's sobbing breaths. The silence hummed in his ears. Then Ereinion, so hesitantly, bent over to retrieve the gold bracelets at his feet, and moved forward in a clumsy shuffle.

"For mercy's sake, Ereinion, leave me alone," Glorfindel whispered hoarsely. "You've won. Take it all. I don't care any more... But leave me alone here to live out my wretched existence in peace. Please."

Carefully, Ereinion knelt and set the bracelets down by Glorfindel's shoulder. "You should keep these," he said softly. "They were made for you, so probably wouldn't fit me anyhow... No sense in me keeping something that wouldn't fit. Is there? You should wear them." He cleared his throat, and shuffled again backward on his knees, leaving Glorfindel alone on the floor.

It took only a quick movement for Glorfindel to slip his bracelets back onto his scarred wrists and fasten them shut, first left, then right. "I wore these bracelets every day for more than three long counts," he said, but softly, almost as if speaking only to himself. He pulled himself up into a sitting position again and looked at Ereinion. "It was the kindest thing your father did for me, giving me these... though I don't think he ever knew how important it was."

Ereinion nodded in a weak reply. He stood, steadying himself on the table for a moment before crossing to the door. "I still want you to come back to the town," he said, speaking halfway to the air outside and looking at neither Glorfindel nor Elrond. "You can have three or four days to pack up everything you have here. Bring it all. We can look through it some other time, and I will find my father's things."

"Fine," said Glorfindel. His tone was flat and emotionless.

"Good." Ereinion nodded, leaning forward against the doorframe.

Carefully, Elrond slipped up beside him. "Um. I found your leaf."

"Oh..." said Ereinion, "Elrond, thank you..." He took the pendant by its chain, letting it dangle between his fingers and catch the golden light of sunset on delicate silver veins. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked. "And perfectly crafted. Hardly a seam at all between metal and stone." He ran the tip of his finger down the central vein of silver, tracing the smoothness. Then he dropped the leaf into Elrond's hand.

"I promised you a present, didn't I," he said. "This is as good a present as anything. It came from your foremother Lúthien, you know... It would be right for you to have it. Here." Smiling, he closed Elrond's fingers over the pendant. "Now it's yours."

Elrond stared down at his closed hand as Ereinion left. To his right, he heard Glorfindel get up off the floor and shake out his robe. Glorfindel had stopped crying. Now, as Elrond cautiously peeked over at him, he was smiling. The smiling mouth was at odds with the red eyes.

"Well!" he said brightly. "Wasn't that exciting. Curses and threats and all. Never a dull time when Ereinion's about. Now tell me, Elrond, what should we make for supper? I'm hungry after all that fussing."

"I don't care," Elrond muttered.

"Green beans, I think. In vinegar. Maybe fried onions, too. How does that sound?"

"Good."

Glorfindel sighed. "Elrond, come over here. Sit down at the table. Please?"

Elrond went to the table and sat, still staring down at his closed fist. The pointed end of the leaf dug into his palm.

"What's the matter?" Glorfindel asked, kneeling down beside Elrond's chair. "I'm sorry you had to watch all that. I wasn't expecting Ereinion to be so... Noldorin. But tell me what's wrong?"

"I found the leaf," said Elrond. He opened his hand to show. There was a little mark on his skin where the leaf's point had been: a triangle of white surrounded by pink. Just like a tiny scar. "Does the skin on your wrists hurt?" he asked.

Glorfindel laughed softly. "No. Not at all. I know it looks awful, but it doesn't hurt. The scar skin is stiff. It's like the tough skin on the bottoms of your feet; it doesn't like to move or bend. But other than that, I feel nothing."

Elrond set the leaf pendant down beside Ereinion's shunned knife. He prodded it with his fingertips, aligning it perfectly with the wood grain of the tabletop and making a spiral of the delicate chain. Glorfindel, still kneeling beside the chair, said nothing, and the silence only grew heavier as Elrond turned the leaf to the side, on its back, to the other side, and made the chain into a circle. After a minute, he could stand it no more.

"You shouldn't let him yell at you like that. It's not right."

"I know," said Glorfindel. "It wasn't very nice. But I can no easier stop him from yelling than I can force you to tell me why you're so upset. I agree, all that fighting was an ugly way to act. And I am sorry you were here while it happened. But it's all fine now, isn't it?"

"He hit you."

"He hit me. Yes. But then I threw the hard metal bracelets at him, so we're even. I think one hit him on the nose, didn't it?"

"No, just his shoulder," said Elrond. 

"That'll have to do. But here, Elrond, don't look so sad..." Glorfindel placed his hand on Elrond's back, urging him closer. And Elrond, though he tried stubbornly at first to resist, eventually allowed himself to slide off his chair, wrapped in a warm embrace. He let his body sink tiredly against the soothing, strong comfort of Glorfindel's chest and arms.

"I'm alright," Glorfindel murmured to him. "There's no need for worry."

Elrond tried to nod, but could only let his head droop further.

"Everything will be fine, Elrond. I promise. We'll go into town, like Ereinion says. We can pack everything back up tomorrow. Nothing's going to change. I'll just be living in town. That's all. It'll be better this way."

"I miss Malo," said Elrond. A hard lump followed the words up his throat, sticking behind his tongue and calling sudden tears to well in his eyes.

Glorfindel kissed his hair. "I know. I know you do. But I'm here now. I'll always be here to take care of you."

"You were there before, weren't you?" Elrond asked. "Where my parents were. Before they died. I remember you. You had long hair then."

Like a flinch at an old memory, Glorfindel tensed. "Yes," he said, after a breath. "I was there."

"Where was there?"

"Avernien," said Glorfindel. "Where the Sirion runs into the sea."

"What was it like?"

"Just a town by the water. Like the town here, only surrounded by trees."  


"What happened?" asked Elrond. "Why did we leave?"

Glorfindel took another slow breath. "It was destroyed."

"There was a fire, wasn't there," Elrond said. "That was in my dream. I was in a wooden room with sand on the floor, and there was a fire... It wasn't just a dream, was it? I was remembering that."

"There was a fire," Glorfindel agreed. "The whole town burned. We all came here afterward."

"And Elros and I went with Maglor and Maedhros..."

Glorfindel's embrace tightened protectively. "I can tell you about them, Elrond, if you want to hear, now that they're gone. How you came to be in their care. It might resolve some of your dreams. Or it might worsen them. It's not an easy story."

"Tell me," said Elrond.

Somewhere, deep inside, he already knew the cruel history he was about to hear. Pieces of it that had been buried for years had at last wound their way back to the surface in nightmares and flashes of recollection. He was beginning to remember. He clung to Glorfindel's robe, and relived the scenes that he had for five years been fearing to believe.


	5. The King's Hand of Light by Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Near the end of the First Age, Maedhros and Maglor are driven out of Beleriand and end up in the only remaining safe haven: the Isle of Balar. They bring with them the eight-year-old sons of Erendil. Implied slash and AU aspects.

Glorfindel adapted back to life in the King's court with remarkable ease. Before the end of the three-day deadline ordered by Ereinion, he had traded his farm to a Sindarin neighbour in exchange for an ox and cart with which to haul his belongings into town. Sunset on the third day found him in Círdan's bathroom. He needed to bathe in a more courtly setting than a wooden tub by the hearth in his farmhouse, he explained to Elrond, and wash his hair with courtly soaps, and perfume his skin with courtly oils, if he was expected to be a proper courtly Elf. The entire process would take at least three hours.  
  
Elrond was helping. A courtly Elf needed an assistant, Glorfindel said. A courtly Elf did not heat his own bath water or wash his own hair. So it was Elrond's duty to fetch the boiling kettle from the fireplace, though it was heavy and difficult to carry, and lather scented soap over Glorfindel's golden head. The second task was both easier and more enjoyable. It allowed an opportunity to secretly check and see if Glorfindel's hair was growing any faster.  
  
Once Elrond was done lathering, Glorfindel handed him a cup of bathwater to wash away the soap. The water, by some wonderful product Glorfindel had produced from his old collection, was bright pink and smelled of lilies. "Will it make your hair pink?" Elrond asked.  
  
"No," said Glorfindel, and then, "At least I hope not..."  
  
Elrond poured the water. The pink did not stick. He poured more until the lather was washed away, and Glorfindel's hair shone bright in the fading rays of sunset. Pink droplets glittered on his skin like liquid jewels as he stepped from the bathtub. And in the seconds before his body was covered by a towelling robe, Elrond could see clearly the three scars, on wrists and stomach, made more prominent by hot water. He pinched the flat skin on his own wrists between his fingernails to mimic the marks in little red crescents. But only secretly, so Glorfindel would not see.  
  
A knock at the door came when Glorfindel was halfway finished dressing in his courtly robes, a task that also required Elrond's assistance. Before he had time even to ask who it was, the door opened and Ereinion stepped inside.  
  
"I've been waiting over an hour," Ereinion said. "What are you doing in here?"  
  
Glorfindel leaned toward the mirror in a lazy way and answered, "I am getting ready. It takes time to bathe and dress and fix my hair and face. I can't be about here looking as if I just walked in from a farm, can I?"  
  
"It's no matter. I'm tired of waiting. Come with me."  
  
"I was dressing," Glorfindel continued. "And you just barged in here. Not very considerate. I'm not fully dressed yet."  
  
"Being fully dressed hardly impacts your usefulness," said Ereinion. "You're fine as you are."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Glorfindel, I honestly don't care if you're wearing regal velvet or a scrap of rag. You're coming with me now."  
  
It seemed for a moment that Glorfindel would argue further. He opened his mouth with a breath, but then closed it again and thinned his lips into a guarded sneer. "Fine," he said. "But you can wait while I do my eyes at least. I'll be quick." He turned back to the mirror, picked up the little kohl brush, and outlined a quick sweep of black. Then, watching the reflection of Ereinion's impatient pacing, added a dusting of white powder to his face as well. "I cannot do this half prepared," he hissed to Elrond as he stood. "It's an insult."  
  
"When will you be back?" Elrond asked.  
  
Glorfindel only shrugged in answer.  
  
~   
  
Ereinion was silent the entire walk to the bedroom. He stayed a constant pace ahead, opening the door and then closing it again once both he and Glorfindel were inside. He only spoke once the door was shut. And then, by the puzzled look on Glorfindel's face, the words were not what had been expected.  
  
"Why are you treating Elrond like that?"  
  
Glorfindel blinked uncertainly. "Like what?"  
  
"Like a servant," said Ereinion. "You have no right to keep him as your personal attendant. It's spitting in the face of all tradition to have a boy of his lineage waiting on somebody like you." He accented the last word harshly.  
  
"Ah yes," Glorfindel said with a nod. "You can take that up with Elrond, if you must. Believe me, it wasn't my idea. I fully intended to go to the markets this morning and find some mongrel boy in need of employment. But Elrond insisted that he could do anything I needed, and begged me not to choose another. This is what he wants to be doing. It's odd, I know, but if it makes him happy..."  
  
"He wants to be hauling your bathwater?"  
  
Glorfindel nodded again. "Yes. Please, ask him if you don't believe me. You think I'd choose somebody that young? I'd wanted one at least thirty or thirty-five: one who can carry a kettle without spilling. But Elrond insisted."  
  
Reluctantly, Ereinion turned away to drum his fingers on the dresser-top. "I'll talk to him tomorrow," he said after a pause. "Let him know that it's not expected of him to wait on you in any way."  
  
"He knows that, Ereinion, and-"  
  
"He should have a servant of his own," Ereinion interrupted. "Between him and Elros, they need somebody to tidy up after them, make their beds, wrestle them into the bath, help with studies, and somebody who isn't you, before you say what you look like you're about to say."  
  
Glorfindel scowled. "I think I have better things to do with my time than help children wipe their bums. What I was about to say was, 'Pity Erestor went mad,' because he was doing an admirable job of all those things on top of his own duties."  
  
"Oh," said Ereinion. "Right... Well, I'll tell Elrond that if he goes to help you find a servant- and I don't mind you having one so long as it's not Elrond- he can find one of his own, too. I think he'll like that better than carrying kettles for you."  
  
"You might be surprised..." Glorfindel muttered.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because it seemed to me that Elrond's offer to be my attendant came more from jealousy than any real desire to be a servant. You see how he's latched on to me now that Maglor and Erestor are gone. I think he's worried that if I pick up some mongrel servant boy, he'll have to compete for attention. It sounds silly, but he's been struggling to make himself seen in the shadow of Elros all his life, and now he's-"  
  
"Stop saying that," Ereinion said suddenly.  
  
"What, about Elros and Elrond? Well it's true. You've seen them."  
  
"No, I mean... what you said before. About... about the..." He paused to take a breath. "About the 'mongrel boys'. I don't want you saying that."  
  
"Why not?" Glorfindel asked, giving a small laugh. "It's what they are."  
  
With a sigh that might have contained a curse, Ereinion pushed his hair back from his face. "I don't care what you call them in your mind or mutter to yourself when nobody's listening, but I don't want to hear that word. It's crude. Nobody says things like that any more."  
  
"Your father did," Glorfindel replied flatly.   
  
"Well we're not in Eithel Sirion now, are we?!" Ereinion snapped back. "Maybe you've not noticed, but the fate of our people, all of us, regardless of ancestry or whatever it is you think is so important, rather depends on us surviving together on this rotten island! Maybe in Eithel Sirion everyone could have the luxury of sneering down at everyone else because they happened to look different or speak a different language. But now you have a soldier of Gondolin married to a scullery maid from Doriath, or a Sindarin chieftain living next door to a man who followed Fëanor out of Aman, whose daughter is betrothed to one of Círdan's sailors... None of it matters at all! Noldorin or Sindarin or Doriathren... the distinctions will be meaningless in a thousand years when we're all so intermarried nobody can rightly say where anyone belongs. And have you even considered what Elrond thinks of your prejudices? If you show such disregard for those who are merely half Sindarin, what can he expect you to think of an ancestry like his?"  
  
"Oh, for..." Glorfindel sat down heavily on the end of the bed. He crossed and uncrossed his legs while slowly leaning back until he was propped up on his elbows. "Elrond is a different case altogether. He's descended from royalty. It's acceptable for them, for political reasons. And besides, he looks fine. I can't say the same for the lower sorts; I still think they're unnatural-looking little beasts. If Eru meant for Elves to have brown hair, he would have made them that way."  
  
Ereinion was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke again, it was quietly. "Honestly, Glorfindel, I expected more sympathy from you, who doesn't even know the name of his own Noldorin father."  
  
Immediately, Glorfindel sat back upright. "That's entirely different! Vanyar and Noldor are far more similar, both the high kindreds of Valinor, and they marry each other all the time! Finwë and Indis, for example, or your aunt's parents..."  
  
"Still... it's a bit funny for you of all people to disapprove of half-Sindarin 'mongrels', isn't it?"  
  
Glorfindel did not reply, but kept his eyes fixed on Ereinion, a fire of loathing kindling within them. "Do you have anything to drink?" he asked sharply. "I think I'm going to need a large amount of spirits tonight." In jerky movements, he began pulling off his robe and tunic.  
  
"Oh..." said Ereinion. "Uhhm... Yes. Wine. Right here."  
  
"Nothing stronger?"  
  
"No... sorry..."  
  
"Then you'd better give me the whole carafe."  
  
Ereinion passed him the wine at arm's length, taking care to keep a wide gap between them, then quickly retreated back to the dresser alcove. He crossed his arms rigidly across his chest as Glorfindel took a mouthful directly from the carafe.  
  
"Has this been watered down?"  
  
"I prefer it mixed half and half."  
  
"Well, no wonder you're so..." The words trailed off as he took another drink.  
  
"You don't have to drink it."  
  
"Oh yes I do," said Glorfindel. "But you're going to have to get me something more substantial, also. There's no way I'll be drunk enough with just this swill."  
  
"Glorfindel, I don't want to bed you," Ereinion said quickly, looking down at the floor as soon as he had spoken.  
  
Glorfindel stared at him. "...What?"  
  
"I don't want... um. I just don't want to." He gave a weak smile, which came out looking more pained than anything.  
  
"Oh," said Glorfindel. In the space of a second, he seemed to fly from surprised to raging, as he slammed the wine carafe down onto the bedside table and shouted, "Stars, Ereinion, why didn't you tell me earlier, before I went to all this trouble?!"  
  
Ereinion stepped back, and his weak smile fell. "Well, to be honest, I didn't think you'd be so disappointed."  
  
"I'm not disappointed! I'm angry! There's a difference!" Without giving Ereinion a chance to ask why, he continued, "I spent two hours this afternoon getting ready for nothing at all! You'd be upset, too, if you'd wasted two hours on you!" He hit the edge of the bed with the palms of his hands, as if it were the cause of his anger.  
  
"...That doesn't make any sense."  
  
"Of course it does!" He grabbed his tunic from the floor and used the sleeve to roughly scrub away the careful lines of black kohl around his eyes. "Wouldn't have bothered..." he muttered; "Could have told me before..."  
  
"Glorfindel," Ereinion said softly. "I'm not sure I understand why you're suddenly so upset over not having to do something you didn't want to do in the first place."  
  
"Why did you ask me to come here?" Glorfindel asked, his voice hard. "You did ask me to come here tonight."  
  
Ereinion took a breath, paused, and said, "Erestor's gone. I need an accountant. I want you to take your old position. That's all."  
  
"And you couldn't have told me this earlier today?"  
  
"I thought I'd-"  
  
"Or," Glorfindel interrupted, "three days ago when you came to my house? You didn't seem to want an accountant then."  
  
Ereinion made a frustrated, growling noise. "I was angry at you, wasn't I?! After your horrible antics at the party and on the beach... I just wanted some kind of revenge, and I thought that would be the best way to make you suffer. It was stupid. I know. I'm sorry. I should have just given you a few good smacks across the face."  
  
"Yes. Maybe you should have." His voice had softened, but Glorfindel gave no indication otherwise of letting the argument drop. He leaned back and stared at Ereinion with an open contempt that dared him to try and break the smothering silence.  
  
A tense minute passed.  
  
"You're free to leave," Ereinion said at last, straining to hold a note of pleasantness in his words and forge a fragile truce.  
  
"To where?" asked Glorfindel. "I have no bedroom. No, I think I'm happy right where I am. You brought me here, and here is where I'll stay."  
  
"In my bed?"  
  
Glorfindel gave a smug smile. "Yes." With a great show of extravagance, he kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed, folding his hands behind his neck. His gaze still held some defiant challenge.  
  
"You can never just let it go, can you?" Ereinion asked quietly.  
  
"Let what go?"  
  
"Pride. Status. The last word. Whatever it is you hold so dear. You can never admit you're wrong, and never win graciously when you're right. And it is about winning with you. Everything is. It's all a terrible sport, to see whom you can overpower and what new heights of control you can reach next. Each moment we spend in each other's company is part of the twisted game you play in your mind. What new treachery can you accomplish this time? How can you best use me to your advantage, just like you used my father? I think you'd kill me, too, if you had the choice."  
  
"I did not-"  
  
"Be quiet," said Ereinion. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say. It's meaningless, and it wastes my time. All you ever do is argue unchangeable pasts and speak tormenting words in false logic. Do you know how tiresome that is? Three days ago, I hated you for it, and for all your evils, but now I simply don't have the energy. I don't care about you one way or the other. You're a sad and pathetic shell of a person, grasping at the faintest remaining shards of whatever glory you think you once possessed, though that life is never coming back to you. You wasted it on a ridiculous gamble for power, and lost it all. How often did you think and plot and plan, for all those years, about what wonderful things you'd do if only my father were dead? And then once he was dead, how long did it take you to realise that without him, you had nothing at all? The whole kingdom died that day. He left you an empty fortress to be lord over rats and crows. Instead of giving you all the power in the world, his death took away every selfish thing you loved. Aren't you sorry you killed him now?"  
  
"Your father died in battle, Ereinion," Glorfindel said thinly. "I don't know how you could think I had anything to do with that."  
  
"Surrounded by balrogs, I know, and I told you to be quiet. That's what I thought for a long time: that he was simply outnumbered and outfought, brave to the end against impossible odds. It's what everyone says. But then I started to consider it more carefully. My father was not a stupid man, and not a foolish general. He would not put himself in danger like that without a good reason. And I think the reason was that he wanted to die. After so many years of you telling him to give in and let himself fall, he went ahead and did it. He walked into the fire, and did nothing. That's what the few of his men who actually saw it told me. He let the balrogs catch him. Their whips of flame had him tangled in a second. Why do you think he would do that, unless he wanted to die?"  
  
For once, Glorfindel had no answer.  
  
"You are a leech, Glorfindel," Ereinion continued, "draining life out of everything that is decent. Eithel Sirion was destroyed on account of you. You won't do the same thing here. In fact it might do you well to remember that you wouldn't even be here if not for Círdan's incredible generosity, welcoming you with love and forgiveness even when you treat him with nothing but disdain. Consider that. Good night."  
  
He turned and left with no further words, escorted down the corridor by the sound of a wine carafe smashing against a wall behind him.  
  
~   
  
"Glorfindel?"  
  
Elrond had only been pretending to sleep. He had lain awake in the window-glassless room, waiting for Glorfindel to return, but was sitting upright in an instant as soon as the door opened and orange candlelight flickered through the darkness.  
  
"Yes, it's me. Go back to sleep, Elrond, I'm only here for a moment."  
  
"You're not coming to bed?"  
  
Glorfindel shook his head. He had crossed the room to stand in front of the dressing table, where a basket of things still unpacked from the farm stood waiting. As he rummaged through, he muttered indistinct words to himself.  
  
"What are you doing?" Elrond asked.  
  
"Just getting something. Nothing important. It's late; go back to sleep."  
  
Going back to sleep, or rather going to sleep at all, was not something Elrond wished to do. Instead he settled halfway, leaning back onto his pillow while still watching Glorfindel closely, and ran his tongue quickly over the backs of his teeth to keep from asking 'What are you doing' again. Glorfindel had pulled a knife from the basket. The words slipped out anyhow.  
  
"Glorfindel? What are you-"  
  
"Nothing, Elrond, I already told you that. Close your eyes and count the stars if you have to. It's past midnight."  
  
"What are you doing with the knife?"  
  
Glorfindel turned around. He held the knife in one hand, and tapped the palm of the other with the blade's point. "I am going back to Ereinion's room."  
  
The honest simplicity of the words made Elrond light-headed. There was no heavy dread, as he had felt in the farmhouse when Ereinion threatened violence, but a quieter sort of uncertainty. Glorfindel was so calm. "You're not going to... do anything, are you?" Elrond asked him.  
  
"No," Glorfindel laughed. "I mean, no, I'm not going to murder anyone, whether he deserves it or not."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
Slowly, Glorfindel ran a hand up the back of his head, fingers combing through golden strands. "Ereinion has a better mirror. I was going to cut my hair."  
  
"No, don't!" Elrond shouted. He snapped his head up and stared at Glorfindel in shock. "Don't do it! It looks nice now! Short hair is ugly! Why do you want to cut it?"  
  
"Lie down, Elrond, and I will tell you a story."  
  
Elrond lay down again, but warily. He kept his eyes on the knife in Glorfindel's hand.  
  
"In Valmar," Glorfindel began, "the law is enforced by officers in service of the crown. The most infamous group of those is called the King's Hands of Light by Justice, and their purpose is to scour away lawlessness and immorality. They are not the soldiers you would call if your cart was stolen or your property damaged, because they do not concern themselves with events that have already happened. They are only interested in finding those in the act of lawbreaking. And those who are found are in no hurry to offend again after the punishments given out by the King's Hands.  
  
"They patrol the streets in small groups of four or five. Their reputation has grown so notorious that even the most respectable citizens will take wide detours to stay out of the path of anyone wearing the fearsome white and gold uniform. The King's Hands cover the whole city, but they are generally interested in the poorer areas, where they can find a constant supply of petty criminals to drag away. Their favourite targets are those who compromise the moral righteousness of the city. Those who live a life that reflects unfavourably in the King's eyes. Prostitutes in particular. According to the King, prostitutes do not exist in Valmar. So anyone suspected of such activities is dealt with quickly and severely to keep the King's truth. Those arrested are taken to prison, where they have all their hair shaved off, so that when they are released, they have no choice but to crawl into the gutters as beggars while the good citizens pelt them with garbage and mockery. A whore cannot work with an ugly, cropped head. That is what the King's Hands say. Now... do you understand the meaning of this story, Elrond?"  
  
"No." It was a warning, it seemed, but one that did not entirely make sense. The King of Valmar was far away and had no power over Glorfindel on Balar. His Hands mattered little. But still, a story about cropped heads could mean nothing good. "It's about people getting their hair cut off," said Elrond. "But that's not you. You didn't say why you want to cut your hair off."  
  
Glorfindel gave a faint smile. "Because I don't deserve to keep it." And he gathered a handful of hair at the back of his head, raised the knife, and sliced it clean off.  
  
~   
  
When Ereinion left Glorfindel, he left the house entirely. It was a relief of sorts to be outdoors and alone on a cool, cloudless night. Thoughts were less cluttered in a wide-open space. A temper was less heated with no walls to confine it. He mindlessly threw rocks off the cliff until his arm was sore and his frustration was swallowed by the water below. Every stone depleted it. Glorfindel's words sank to the bottom of the sea.  
  
By the time he returned, all windows in the house were dark save one. A candle was still lit in Círdan's bedroom. He followed the light without thinking, until he was leaning through the shutters and looking down at Círdan, who sat on the bed below.  
  
"You're up late."  
  
"So are you," said Círdan. He had something in his hands: a roughly hewn wooden bowl, and a shard of sharp rock that he used to smooth the surfaces.  
  
"Another bowl?"  
  
"One can never have too many." He set the rough bowl down beside two other finished pieces on his bedside table.  
  
"Why do you make those, anyhow? Every time I come to see you, you're carving another bowl."  
  
"Idle hands lead one to evil deeds. Honest work is the path to Enlightenment."  
  
Ereinion rolled his eyes. "I knew you were going to say something like that..." Hoisting himself up by his hands, he knelt on the windowsill before leaning forward and rolling down onto the bed.  
  
"You'll crack the plaster one of these days."  
  
"I'll fix it if I do."  
  
Círdan shifted sideways to allow Ereinion more room to sit. "Why are you wandering about at such an hour?"  
  
"Glorfindel. Specifically, that he's in my bed and refuses to move."  
  
"And how might he have come to be in your bed in the first place?" Círdan asked. When Ereinion gave no answer, he continued, "Might this be a problem for which both of you share the blame?"  
  
"It's possible," Ereinion said vaguely. "Is it my fault if he misinterprets my requests?"  
  
"Ereinion..."  
  
Ereinion growled. "Oh, fine, I did deliberately mislead him. But my final intention was perfectly innocent. He's the one that leapt over the edge and started screaming at me." Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and forehead. "I'm not sure how, but for a minute he actually made me feel like a terrible person for not forcing him to be my consort against his will."  
  
"He's a troubled and difficult sort. And you know you'd be better off simply leaving him alone. Instead, you put yourself in his path for a challenge, he can't help but attack you, you respond with exactly the sort of fury he tries to provoke, and the cycle goes on."  
  
"What am I supposed to do instead?" Ereinion asked angrily. "Just let him wreak havoc as he pleases? He hates me, Círdan. And judging by his past behaviour, I don't think he'll put any holds on how far he goes to damage me or my authority."  
  
Círdan shook his head. "He doesn't hate you."  
  
"Then he's doing an admirable impression," Ereinion said with a bitter laugh. "I know. You've told me before: he doesn't truly hate me, he hates himself more, he needs to be forgiven for past evils and treated with acceptance in order for him to allow himself to be a better person... I know, I know, I know. Those are the kinds of things that are easy to say but difficult to prove. You see it, but I just can't. It's not that simple."  
  
Again, Ereinion rubbed at his eyes, while Círdan watched him in silence.  
  
"Would you like me to prove this to you?" Círdan asked after a long while.  
  
"Prove... how?"  
  
Círdan gave a soft smile. "Willpower is an amazing thing. If by gathering evidence to support my position I can achieve a measure of peace between you and Glorfindel, I will find a way to do it."  
  
"I'll be happy to see you try," Ereinion said bitterly. "Only don't hold too much hope."  
  
~  
  
But by the next morning, in the warmth and brightness of early sunlight and after a cup of tea, Ereinion found his mind to be persuaded more to Círdan's line of thought. He could, he considered, prove himself to be a fair and honest sort by apologising to Glorfindel for all wrongs past and present, forgiving him his errors, and offering a fresh start on friendly terms. There was a strong feeling of personal goodness to be had through these thoughts. There was also a strong feeling of smug satisfaction in telling himself that Glorfindel was like a wayward child who needed to be dealt with very delicately, by more reasonable adults.  
  
So he went to his bedroom in purpose to find Glorfindel and convey his new feeling of good will. Glorfindel was in the bed, still asleep as Ereinion had expected, surrounded by kicked-off blankets and tangled in the one remaining sheet. On a nearby table lay a long dagger, a shard of obsidian, and a wooden bowl full of short, golden hairs.  
  
Ereinion cleared his throat, took a breath, and said loudly, "You filthy, lying, goat-fucking, hypocritical bit of horse shite!"  
  
Immediately, Círdan sat upright, looking both surprised and horrified at the sight of Ereinion standing at the end of the bed. Glorfindel merely grumbled tiredly as he rolled over and hid his head beneath a pillow. "Ereinion," said Círdan.  
  
"Your famed morality astounds me," Ereinion answered flatly. "No wonder you were so keen to find our good Vanya last night. If he's so willing to fall into bed with whomever will have him, the temptation must have been overwhelming. How stupid of me to expect you to resist it simply because I did."  
  
"Ereinion-"  
  
"Was this your great plan to bring him and me closer together? Make him your lover, so we can all live happily under this roof as some sort of misguided family?"  
  
"Ereinion, if you'll let me explain-"  
  
"I don't think that's necessary," said Ereinion. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you after what must have been a very satisfying night. I'll go elsewhere."  
  
"You're not giving me a chance to-"  
  
"I have no intention of doing so."  
  
He turned and left, staring hard at the ground as he did. A faraway buzzing echoed in his ears, pulsing in time with the blood that pounded through his head. Wherever he needed to be, it was not in that room, or anywhere that he could imagine. There was no safe and sane place left in the house. But his feet knew the way, and steered him somehow, until he found himself sitting on the floor in the corner of a far room, stuck between a cabinet and the wall like a sulking child. He pressed his eyes against his knees and squeezed his hands into fists. Only one thought came to him: Círdan and Glorfindel.  
  
It was over an hour later that Glorfindel found him, still in the corner with his chin in his hands. "I've been looking everywhere for you," Glorfindel said.   
  
Glorfindel, as far as Ereinion could see from his vantage point on the floor, was wearing one of his old, patterned farm outfits again, but had added a bright purple scarf around his head. Never before had he looked so much like a Sindarin washerwoman. "Why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit?"  
  
"I find it comfortable and practical," Glorfindel answered sharply. "Why are you hiding in here like a little boy scolded by his mother?"  
  
"Same reason. Why are you looking for me, though? I have nothing to say to you."  
  
Glorfindel allowed a tight smile. "I'm sure you could think of a few good words if you tried. But if you can't, that's fine, because I'm only here to apologise to you. Then I'll leave."  
  
Warily, Ereinion raised his head. "You're..."  
  
"I'm sorry," Glorfindel said in a stiff voice. "I'm sorry I'm continually saying things that you shouldn't have heard, if they caused you to be upset. I realise that you may not be quite ready to learn some of the finer details of your father's past. I am also sorry you caught Círdan and me asleep this morning, and that you had no choice but to make a wrong assumption about us based on the fact that we were sharing a bed. I can only promise that the most scandalous thing to happen all night was that I stole his pillow. Not that you would know this, because you didn't bother to listen to his explanation. I'm sorry we made you so unreasonably angry."  
  
For a moment, Ereinion could only blink. "You know," he said slowly, "you're very good at insulting me in everything you say. I suppose that's the only way you can ever bring yourself to apologise. Either that or you just lie outright."  
  
"I'm not lying. If you want to know the full truth about last night, here it is. Círdan came to your bedroom some time after you left, knowing that I'd be there. We talked awhile, discussing things past and present, and he helped me realise the errors of my behaviour and that I ought to apologise to you. He helped me cut my hair. Then we went to sleep. That's all. You'll remember that he was fully clothed and I had only taken off my shoes and over-robe as we lay in bed. I have absolutely no interest in him of the kind you fear, and he has none in me. Or in any other person in the world, come to think on it. Our bed-sharing was entirely innocent."  
  
"Why did you cut your hair?"  
  
"Because I had a strong desire to do so."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Sighing, Glorfindel leaned against the wall. He stood a moment before sliding down into a sitting position with head tilted back and eyes closed. It seemed a long while before he opened them again. "Because... I think I wanted to destroy something. And vanity seemed as good a target as any."  
  
"But you've done it before."  
  
"I know. When I lived on the farm, I did every year. At the end of summer. Out of guilt for the past. All that time, I thought I had risen above my previous faults, and I felt so... pure and enlightened, I suppose, for recognising my flaws and working to correct them. Then last night you made me realise how completely wrong I was. Weak and imperfect as ever. Maybe even worse. I think I would have done whatever you asked or... implied. I'm sure I would have. I'd hate myself for it, and I hate myself now just for knowing what I would have done, when I thought I was all grand for rising above all that. So I had to cut my hair. I deserve worse, but I'm also a terrible coward besides being a soulless shell, as you rather accurately called me, so I'm afraid I'll have to face my baseness one small step at a time."  
  
He reached up to pull off the purple scarf, and Ereinion pressed his knuckles to his mouth to keep from speaking any word or even a sound of surprise. What remained of Glorfindel's hair was uneven and choppy, and less than an inch long all over his head.  
  
  
"They cut the hair of low criminals in Valmar, you know," Glorfindel said quietly.   
  
"For... why?"  
  
"I'm not entirely sure. Identification, humiliation... because they can? It's just what's done."  
  
"You consider yourself a criminal, then?"  
  
Glorfindel gave no answer. But he stood after a moment, and motioned for Ereinion to do the same. "Come with me. If you'll leave your sulking spot, I have something for you."  
  
"You can't bring it here?"  
  
"No, too heavy. And too many. Some things, I should have said."  
  
Ereinion gave Glorfindel a frown and a questioning glance, but stood as requested. And he followed to the spare bedroom. Baskets and sacks of all manner of things, from clothes to books to tools, lined the walls. With no word of explanation, Glorfindel took up one of the book baskets and shoved it into Ereinion's arms. "Here."  
  
Unprepared for the weight, Ereinion nearly dropped it. "What the... Stars, Glorfindel, what is this?"  
  
"I told you they were heavy, didn't I?" said Glorfindel. "They're books. As you can see. Books from Eithel Sirion. I don't know why I kept them. But you can have them now."  
  
Ereinion set the basket on the floor and looked up, carefully watching Glorfindel, who seemed to be far too interested in the sleeve of a shirt dangling from one of the sacks. "What books are they?"  
  
"Just book books. You know, the sort that people have... to write in." He took a breath and cleared his throat. "Your father's hour-books."  
  
"My father's..." Ereinion hissed, inhaling sharply. He glanced quickly between the books and Glorfindel, searching for any sign of trickery, certain that he was about to be the butt of some cruel joke. When Glorfindel did nothing, he flipped open the top book and read its title page.  
  
"This is... written in code."  
  
"Mm," said Glorfindel. "They all are. Fingon wrote all of his personal records in code, to keep them personal."  
  
"Can you read it?"  
  
"No. I can pick out and guess at words here and there, the easy ones, but he never taught me the key to reading it fully. It's some sort of shorthand that he created, to allow himself to write quickly and with secrecy."  
  
Ereinion sighed. Perhaps it was a great joke, after all, to be presented with his father's diaries only to find them unreadable. He flipped open the few on top of the basket, vainly hoping that one would have been written plainly, but finding nothing. "Is it the same code in all books?"  
  
"Yes," said Glorfindel, and then corrected himself; "I mean, I would assume it is. I never asked or looked closely enough to be certain."  
  
"So it could be deciphered, with time..."  
  
"If one were so dedicated."  
  
"I am." Slowly, he stood again, keeping one of the books in his hand. It had been bound in leather, which at one time must have been a rich golden brown but had since faded from age and use. The corners and a spot on the cover had worn through. The paper was rough and yellow-grey. It would have been a cheap book, made quickly and with little care from whatever materials could be found in Hithlum. But the writing was there. His father's own penmanship, with its neat, slanted tengwar and unfamiliar symbols, was still clear.  
  
He looked to Glorfindel, who still stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. "Why did you keep them? Out of all the treasures of Eithel Sirion, why would you take the time to save these books? They're old and worn and written in a code nobody can read, and essentially worthless. You can't sell them, and they're no decorative works to be displayed as a show of your wealth. On top of that, they're heavy and take up space that could have been filled with jewels or silver. Why would you bother?"   
  
"I just... thought..." Glorfindel said haltingly. "I thought you might want them."  
  
Ereinion stared at him. "What?"  
  
"I thought you might want them. If you could ever read them, or even if you couldn't, because they were something very personal of Fingon's. Of course, that box isn't all of them... he had hundreds in all by the end, one a year, or more. I only took some. I thought of you, and what you would want, and how it would be a shame to leave the books there in the tower for orcs to destroy. That just seemed wrong... And now I'm getting all nostalgic and stupid, so I think you'd better leave before I accidentally say something nice to you."  
  
Grinning, Ereinion stepped forward to catch Glorfindel in a crushing embrace. He felt Glorfindel's body freeze and tense, fighting an urge to flee; he held tighter. "You don't have to say anything nice," he murmured. "This... these books... It's the single greatest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you. Thank you..."  
  
"Oh," said Glorfindel. "Well. Good." He shifted his weight to pull back, but Ereinion held firmly.  
  
"I don't hate you, Glorfindel," he continued. "You're infuriating and sometimes I want to strangle you, but I don't hate you." He sighed. "I'm sorry we're at such odds all the time. You used to be my favourite person, you know, after my father. Back when I was Elrond's age and didn't know any better. I remember being so happy, when I was living in Eglarest and Círdan said you had arrived out of the north, but when we met again after all that time, everything had changed... You had been like my second father. I thought I was getting that back. Instead, you treated me with such hostility, and I had no idea what I had done to deserve it. I have an idea now, but then..."  
  
Glorfindel shook his head. "No. It's not what you think."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"Some other time. It's irrelevant and meaningless and I'm beyond it now."  
  
"Alright..." With another sigh, lighter than the first, Ereinion dropped his head onto Glorfindel's shoulder. He could feel Glorfindel shifting uncomfortably again, though this time without pulling away. "Do you think we could ever try to be like a family again? Or are we too late for that?"  
  
For a long moment, Glorfindel only stood, silently breathing. "We could... try," he finally said. Awkwardly, he lifted his arms, and placed his hands with a tentative familiarity on Ereinion's back.


End file.
